To catch a hawk
by nonyvole
Summary: Trust-verse. Clint was less recruited, and more drafted, by SHIELD. Nobody knew what to expect, least of all Clint.
1. Chapter 1

Based on character development in my "Trust" story. Nothing about the Marvel Universe is mine. Early nineties, so technology is most certainly not where it is today; computers were still becoming popular, the internet was mostly for universities and scientists, cell phones were little more than paperweights, and all the cool kids had pagers.

* * *

As soon as Clint put on his mask and scrambled up the rope ladder to the highest point in the tent, everything but the next hour went away. He didn't go on until near the end of the first act, so he was able to spend the time doing what he liked best, outside of shooting his bow – people watching. For all that the reactions were the same from one show to the next, he still enjoyed it, still enjoyed playing little games with himself about who would have what expression on their face, who would clap, who would cover their eyes when the tightrope twins did their falling routine. (His was better. They just seemed to stumble and fall into the net, he ran out and jumped, shooting arrows on the way down.)

For some reason tonight, there was a higher number of men and women in black suits, some of whom didn't look like they were enjoying themselves. He'd seen folks like them over the past couple of months, but tonight had the highest concentration. Clint guessed that there was some sort of business meeting that had decided a field trip to Coney Island, and the circus, was the thing to do. Saturday nights and all that. He'd've suggested, had he been asked, being someplace other than here, but since he hadn't been, and some of them did seem to be enjoying themselves, he just put them out of his mind.

One man, with an eyepatch, was pointing up at Clint about halfway through the first act and talking to another man. The observation shook Clint slightly, but years of performing allowed him to focus on what he was hoping he'd get paid to do. He'd missed the last payday, because there were rules about that sort of thing: if you weren't there to get your money, it went to something else. Last time, he'd been stuck in a police station a hundred miles away answering questions and only avoiding being booked and given a trial by the skin of his teeth. The good showing of the past few days gave the young man hope that he'd get enough over the usual to buy a new bowstring and some beer off of the weightlifters, or even get his good bow back.

His act went as well as normal, and he stuck around to help out for the rest of the circus. When he was finally able to return to the tent set up for the use of the circus performers, he passed through a very loose ring of the black-suited men and women. Most people wouldn't have seen it, but he'd been taught through life to watch out for patterns. It wasn't quite enough to set off his radar, but he entered the tent on edge. The fact that the tent was empty made it even worse, until he saw the man sitting in _his_ chair, which just made him mad.

"You're in my chair." Clint's hand tightened around his bow as he pulled off his mask. "Get out. This is a private area. Get out."

"Clinton Francis Barton." The man didn't turn around, focusing on a file he held in his lap. "From Waverly, Iowa. Parents died about 15 years ago. Car accident, both of 'em were drunk. Tell me, how'd you like Juvie? Up to me, you'd've been tried as an adult, locking that little girl into her closet like that."

"Wasn't up to you. Now are you going to get out or am I going to have to make you?" Clint scowled. He should've turned around and ran when he'd gotten the first look at that group of agents, hidden in with the animals. He'd done it before, when the cops or the feds came sniffing, even when he _knew_ that they were there for somebody else; it was why he'd left the last circus. It was never a good thing to be on _anybody's_ persons-of-interest list, and this guy was poking at old hurts.

"Sit down, _boy_." The man stood up, turning around with a flare of his trench coat and tossing the folder onto Clint's dressing table. One eye covered with a black eyepatch, the man Clint had noticed earlier glared at the young man. "Sit down, shut up, and answer my questions. Understood?" He pointed at Clint's chair.

Clint glared back, dropping his mask next to him. "Hard to answer when you just told me to shut up." He shoved past the man, bumping shoulders, and was going to put his bow down on the table when he felt a hand grab his free arm. He spun around, raising his bow defensively. "_Don't_ touch me."

The man smirked. "I like your spirit. Agent Santos?" he raised his voice.

"Yes, Director Fury?" The other man Clint had been watching from his perch just _appeared_, a thick envelope in his hand. Taking in the positions of Clint and Fury, he raised his eyebrows in a silent question, before handing the envelope to Fury and picking up the file folder.

With one smooth motion, Fury shifted his grip, from Clint's upper arm to his wrist, turning Clint's hand over and slapping the envelope into it. As Clint looked down at it, Fury smiled, all teeth and no real warmth. "Let's try this again, Mr. Barton. My name is Nick Fury, the director of an organization that you will have never heard of before. We have an interest in people like you. What you have there is an invitation." He dropped Clint's wrist. "Monday, 9 AM, at the address inside. I would recommend using the cash to get something else," he eyed Clint's costume, "to wear, something that will allow you to blend in. There are also tokens in there, enough to get you to and from Manhattan twice." As Clint stared at Fury, mute for once, the two dark-suited men vanished.

The other members of the circus slowly trickled into the tent as Clint put his bow on the table and sat down, taking a second, more in-depth look at the envelope. On the front was a strange emblem, and he traced his name typed on the front with one callused finger as he mouthed the words "Clinton F. Barton." He ignored the questions being put his way as he flipped the envelope over and worked one finger under the flap, opening it.

As he pulled out the folded paper he heard the clanking of subway tokens, and one fell out. Quick as his namesake, Clint tracked it through the air, snatching it before it hit the ground. Tucking it back into the envelope, he carefully placed it on his lap and unfolded the paper. A paperclip held some bills, and a glance around suggested that nobody was paying him any more attention. Clint pulled them off, folding them in half, then the money joined the tokens in the envelope.

The sheet of paper looked, at first glance, like the letter he had gotten from the FBI two months ago about his brother. Running one finger along the text, he slowly read "Dear Mr. Barton," Mentally, he swore that if this was more bad news, he'd put his quiver and his bow on his back and start walking east, not stopping until he hit Europe. He continued reading. "Report at 0900 Monday to to the address listed below. You are allowed one (1) bag or suitcase of personal belongings, including chosen weapons. Be prepared to be present for between one (1) and seven (7) days with little or no contact with family, friends, or current/previous employers. You will be compensated for your time. All meals and lodging will be provided. Upon arrival, please present this letter and photo identification to the security guard." It was signed with some random name.

"Hey, Hawkeye, William is about to do payday." One of the tightrope twins stuck her head over Clint's shoulder. "You aren't in trouble, are you?"

Clint shrugged, tucking the paper and envelope inside his costume top. Grabbing his bow, he followed the others out to where the ringmaster was holding court, handing each person a stack of bills with a flourish. It had been a good week, if William was looking that happy and acting like that in front of the entire group, who really didn't give a damn, as long as they got their fare share.

If one thing held true about any circus that Clint had been in, it was to never count your money around others. So once Clint had gotten his cash, he retreated to "his" spot: the perch in the performance tent. Business had been even better than the ringmaster's antics had suggested, if the amount he was holding was any indication. Pulling out the cash that had come with the letter, Clint did some thinking. He needed fifty bucks to get his good bow out of the pawn shop, he needed food, and he had been told to get clothing to "blend in" – that man, Fury, had probably been thinking of a suit, especially since the address was on Wall Street, but there were more than suits who were down there at 9 AM on a Monday morning. And besides, having some spare cash just in case was always a smart thing to do...here Clint paused in his musings, peeling off a twenty dollar bill and tucking it away in his shoe. Just in case. Clint couldn't do the math, but he did think that he'd be able to do everything with the money he still held in his hand. Tucking the money into the envelope, and the envelope back into his top, he tied the safety rope to his bow and himself, before firmly telling his stomach that it'd be fed tomorrow, and fell asleep.

* * *

One advantage to Sunday was that there was only one show in the evening. So when Clint woke up, it was with the entire day free. Climbing down from his perch, he parted with a dollar for a cup of coffee and leftovers from one of the hot dog vendors, then went to see if his one "normal" outfit still fit. The shirt didn't, but he was able to borrow a t-shirt, swearing up and down that he'd have it back by that evening, he just had to go someplace where he didn't want to be a walking advertisement for the circus. With the realization that clothing was more important than his bow or even more food, his first stop was an Army-Navy Surplus Store, where he was able to get most of the things that he thought he needed. The combat boots he got were surprisingly comfortable for a man who was used to wearing whatever he could dig from a dumpster or no shoes at all, and he found a duffel bag large enough for both of his bows as well as whatever clothing he got. Just because he could, he also got himself a watch and a knife. Knife throwing was a skill that he'd trained for, even if he rarely used it, and one that he enjoyed; finding a knife that was perfectly balanced meant that he not only wanted it, but felt that he _needed_ it. An old Army jacket, complete with some patches, completed his ensemble.

No stranger to walking, Clint spent most of the rest of the day walking back to Coney Island, spending money along the way for the rest of the things that he thought or knew he needed. After stopping by the pawn shop for his bow, he returned to the circus for an hour's practice. The show that night went like any Sunday night show, and he spent that night curled around his new belongings.


	2. Monday

Poor, well, everybody.

* * *

Clint didn't know just _why_ he was nervous about not following the instructions on the letter, but he found himself exiting the subway at 8:30 the next morning, having told the guys at the circus that he'd be gone for a week or so. The ringmaster had just shrugged; he was used to acts coming and going, and the thought that Clint would just vanish didn't bother him. He was walking through the door of the building at 8:45, and showing the security guard his letter and warming up to a good argument about why he didn't have any photo ID when he heard his name being called.

"Mr. Barton?" An older woman in a suit walked up. "Agent Delores Smith. It's okay, Ralph, we knew about this one, he's cleared." Turning back to Clint, she continued, "Please bring your belongings and come with me." She eyed Clint's outfit, then turned and headed for an elevator, inserting a key into a lock and pressing a button. As the two entered the elevator, she spoke again, in a rote-sounding voice. "You are not allowed to go anywhere without an escort until otherwise notified. No smoking, illegal drugs, alcohol, or fighting anyplace other than designated areas is allowed. Failure to follow these instructions will result in imprisonment for a minimum of six months, unless Director Fury decides to ship you off to the Arctic and the project going on there. Do you understand these instructions?"

As Clint stammered his agreement, the agent led him into a room with some other men and women, each sitting near a bag. The agent waved her hand, telling him to wait. Turning to leave, she seemed to look _through_ Clint, then smiled. "There is some food over there, help yourself. You look like you could use a good meal or three."

Barely glancing at the other people in the room – all dressed in suits, Clint was amused to notice – he headed straight for the table, grabbing an apple and a bagel, sitting down in a corner and rapidly devouring both.

"Jasper Sitwell, science, MIT." A man was standing in front of Clint, holding out his hand. "you?"

"Clint Barton." Clint shook the other man's hand, glancing back over at the food, wondering if he'd have enough time to have some more. He'd eaten breakfast, but was still hungry.

"Alright folks!" Agent Smith had re-entered the room. "Come get a strip of tape and a pen. On the tape, write your last name, comma, first initial, period. Then write the number that I will tell you. Place the tape _across_ the opening of your bag. For you scientific types, that is either perpendicular to or completely covering the zipper. For you non-scientific types, that is either across the zipper or right on top of it. Unless you are told otherwise, leave all weaponry in your bag. Your bags will be brought to your assigned rooms which are assigned based on why you're here, so you're not all on the same floor. If, at any time, you have questions or concerns, or it appears that your bag has been opened without your consent, please notify myself or any other agent who you have talked with today by picking up the phone in your room and pressing one. The phone in your room is _not_ connected with the outside world."

Clint lined up with the rest of the group, as Agent Smith ran through a list of names, telling each person their number with a bored look on her face. "Barton, Clinton. Number 973. That is 9, 7, 3. Leave your weapons in your bag for today." Unlike the others, he got a small smile. "Your first thing for today is a chance to learn just what exactly is going on. You good with the instructions?"

Giving her a surprised look – sure, he hadn't exactly finished elementary school, but Clint could follow instructions – he painstakingly wrote out exactly as Agent Smith had said. Barton, C. 973. Carefully smoothing the tape across the zipper on his duffel, he stood up and waited at the back of the group.

"Alrighty then!" Agent Smith's voice was suddenly cheerful. "Now for the fun part! Scientists, you know who you are, are with me. Technical folks, you're with Agent Sheila Morse, and all the rest of you are with Agent Phil Coulson. Tomorrow and for the rest of the week all you science and techy sorts will be with me." She pointed to two others who had entered the room, one a female, the other male. Clint headed over to the male agent.

"Barton," the man nodded. "Phil Coulson. Call me Agent, or Coulson. Sir is an acceptable alternative. Welcome to SHIELD. You're my only one, lucky me and even luckier you. First stop is Medical, where you're going to get an incredible amount of shots, more blood drawn than should ever be taken from one person at one time, and whatever else they think that you'll need. So, because you didn't come through the same channels as everybody else here today did, let me tell you a little bit about what you've been recruited for. SHIELD stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, and we're here to help protect the United States and the rest of the known world, as well as some parts of the unknown world, from threats that the average person has no clue about whatsoever. What we need you for is something that you may not be the best person for right now, but you've got some skills that we can use and we can train you up to _be _the best person for the job. Can you shoot a gun? How about hand-to-hand?"

"Haven't held a gun for years," Clint responded. "Never got any real training in fighting, but picked up a couple things."

"Good. We'll be getting you started on that first off. So, the bigger question that you need to think about, I don't want an answer until the end of the week, is this. Do you think that you can kill a man?"

Clint stopped in the middle of the hallway. "You want what?"

"SHIELD wants you, Clinton Francis Barton, AKA Clint, AKA Hawkeye, to become an assassin and a spy, to kill those that need killing and to spy on those from whom we need information without them knowing that we need that information. In return, we will give you whatever you need, and whatever you want, within reason. You will spend the next week going through orientation, assessment, and some basic training, for which you will be paid more money than you've ever seen at a single time in your rather sad little life, given a real bed to sleep in, three healthy meals a day with the ability to snack almost whenever you want, and medical and dental checkups the likes of which you should have been given on a regular basis since birth, but never had, as well as the vaccinations that, again, you should have gotten, but never did, how you avoided them in juvenile detention is beyond me, but they probably didn't care and all reports of your time there suggest that you weren't one to do anything willingly, not to mention that you got into far too many fights." Coulson had stopped when Clint did, but started walking again. "Which is why our first stop is at Medical. I do not suggest antagonizing them, the nurses and doctors have practice with tougher people than you, and for all that the nurses are all incredibly gorgeous, they will chew you up and spit you out."

"Is that why I've been seeing people in black suits in the audience for the past two months?" Clint wasn't sure just what he was feeling. If he'd been asked straight up, he'd've said no and told Fury to take a hike, but this whole deal...it wouldn't hurt to stick around the week, could it?

Coulson just arched one eyebrow. "Very observant. But, continuing on. When we recruit for the position that you've been recruited for, we do it much like we did with you. Tell you when and where to show up and some other instruction. It's a test, one that you've passed. Usually people show up wearing suits, seeing as how were are down on Wall Street and it is the beginning of the workday, but your methods actually worked out better for somebody who looks like you do. If you hadn't passed, you wouldn't have made it through the front door, and you'd've been back on Coney Island, pawning all of your new things and getting the weightlifters to buy you cheap beer and slowly poisoning yourself on day-old hot dogs."

"Oh." Clint had a suspicion that he'd be accepting this job, if only because it meant that he'd have a real bed and regular meals. The killing thing...well, if he'd been able to get into the military, he'd be killing people, and there had been those fights in juvie, ones that he'd had to be pretty aggressive in. From his viewpoint, killing wasn't something that he could actually comprehend.

Medical was, as Coulson had said, an experience. The minute the two men entered the room, Clint found himself swarmed with nurses, and the number of needles he had stuck into him was not something that he wanted to repeat, ever. He felt like crying after the third, and lost count after the fifth. Some of the questions that he was asked were nothing that he expected – why should they care about if his mouth ever itched after eating? Coulson leaned against the wall, watching impassively as Clint very vocally let the staff know just what exactly he thought of them, what they were doing, and where they could stick all that medical equipment they were waving around and why the hell did they have to stick that needle _there, _weren't his arms good enough?

He was handed a small pile of paper telling him when to return for more shots, and told that he'd probably feel pretty crappy for the next few days, take a look at the papers for any sort of questions he had and what was considered an emergency. "Do the rest of them have to go through all this?"

"The rest of them don't have your background," Coulson pointed out. "And the rest of them probably won't be in the same situations as we're asking you to go into. So, do you have any questions yet?"

"Yeah. Can I have something to eat? And do I have to do anything like that again?"

Coulson nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head. "We can swing by the mess hall on our way to your initial orientation session. You'll be there with everybody else. Feel free to ask questions, or save them for me later. After that, it'll be time for lunch, then we've some tests to give you, which will take all afternoon. As for returning to Medical...probably. I've yet to see somebody come out of a fight without needing to at least get some painkillers from them."

The tests that Coulson had promised were all academic in nature, and Clint felt like he'd run a marathon when he finished with the last one, looking around for somebody to take him to get dinner. He was juggling the pencil and a couple balls of paper when Coulson walked into the room. "Dinner?" Coulson asked, not looking surprised at Clint's activity.

Clint could only nod, feeling numb. "Can I get it to go?" He really didn't feel like being around anybody else and just wanted to sleep. He was sore from earlier and all those needles, and his brain felt like it had been taken out, shaken up, put in a blender, then poured back in.

"Sure," Coulson nodded, stopping by a phone on the wall. He propped the earpiece on his shoulder, dialing a number. "Coulson. Need two meals to go, what do you have?" He looked at Clint. "Two mac and cheese, with jello." Hanging the phone up, he continued "best options they had tonight. Your room is right down the hall here, so I'll drop you off and go pick up the food, bring it to you."

Clint's room reminded him slightly of his prison cell, but much larger. The bed looked more comfortable, too. Looking around, he noticed his duffel sitting in front of a wardrobe, a desk next to the bed, and a door on the other side of the room. A knock on the door had him walking over and opening it. Coulson was standing there, holding a tray. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Clint stood back as Coulson entered, setting the tray down on the desk.

"Downside to the rooms here is that there is only one chair." He sat down in said chair, glancing at Clint. "Shut the door, Barton, and come eat, there are still a couple things that I need to go over with you."

Clint complied, picking up his plate and retreating to the opposite side of the room, sitting on the floor and leaning back against the wall. Going for the jello first, he just stared at Coulson. "Can I open my bag?"

"Yes. That whole deal with the tape was to show you that we were deserving of some level of trust, because while we had the dogs take a sniff and put it through the x-ray, we didn't open it and go shuffling around. So, more rules. Agent Smith gave you the basics for this week; as soon as I'm out that door, you're stuck in here until the morning, because I've got about three hours of my regular work to do and then I'm going to sleep, only an emergency will get me away from those plans. In case of an emergency that requires evacuation, you will exit your room, turn right, go down the staircase at the end of the hallway, and wait at the door. Do not leave the building, it's a lot safer than you'd think." Coulson ate quickly, neatly, talking around bites. "The phone, as you've been told, is internal. Only. Not a problem for you, there isn't anybody you'd call. For emergencies, press zero. To reach me, press one. Mess hall will deliver food at any time of the day or night, they're two. Forgot a toothbrush? Press three. Four through nine don't work and won't for the rest of the week. There's a list on the phone. Housekeeping cleans this floor every Friday, that includes your bathroom and vacuuming the floor in here. For tonight, I'd suggest unpacking and getting some rest; tomorrow you're scheduled to go see the dentist, God help him and you if you act like you did today in Medical. You're also scheduled for weapons testing, see if you're as good with those bows in your bag as you seem to be, and also if you can handle firearms without shooting your eye out. More orientation with the techs and scientists, plus a bit more that is more for you specifically, depending on how I feel. More rules later, as we discover that you do or do not need them. I can tell you right now, Barton, that you're going to be learning a few new languages, so no bitching about that." Finished, Coulson stood up. "When you're done, put the plates on the tray and leave it outside your door, against the wall. Somebody'll pick it up during the night. Oh yeah. From here on out, wear this." He tossed a badge on the desk. "If you aren't in here or working out, this will be on your person, visible, at all times."

Clint just nodded, finishing his dinner. If he tried, he could probably repeat what Coulson had just told him, but he was so tired...he started slightly as Coulson knelt down in front of him, taking the plate and silverware. "Bed, Barton. That's an order. I'll make sure that this stuff gets dealt with." Coulson smiled slightly, the first that Clint could remember seeing on the other man's face. "I'll be back at 6. Mornings come early here."

All that Clint could do as Coulson placed the dirty dishes on the tray and left the room, closing the door with a quiet click, was shove himself up, stumbling over to the bed, dropping his clothing on the way. Climbing under the covers, he turned out the light and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	3. Tuesday

Fury moves quickly here. Clint doesn't have much in the way of options.

* * *

When Clint woke up the next morning, he rolled over and immediately sat up with a hiss. He was sore, _everywhere_, worse than yesterday. Looking at his watch, he realized that he still had a couple hours until Coulson said he'd show up, so he took a chance that Coulson was telling the truth about the mess hall serving food at any time; pressing two on the phone, he was surprised when somebody answered. "Hey, can I, uh, get something to eat?"

"Name?" The voice said.

"Clint...Clint Barton."

"Thank you, Mr. Barton. We will bring you something shortly."

Clint slowly rolled his shoulders as he climbed out of bed, hoping that by working his muscles some they'd loosen up before he had to start using his bow. He picked up his clothing and opened his duffel bag, pulling out clean clothing. Sliding on a pair of pants as somebody knocked at the door, he opened it and thanked the person there, taking the tray and kicking the door shut with his foot. He ate quickly, then turned to unpacking.

By the time there was another knock on the door, Clint had unpacked, found that a hot shower helped the stiffness, and was checking on the status of his bows while watching cartoons on the TV. He hoped that whoever had moved his bag had been careful...but he still didn't trust them to have not dropped it. "It's open!" he called out, looking up as Coulson entered.

"Day two, you ready?" Coulson asked as a greeting. "You got breakfast already, so bring your gear and lets head over to the range. We've got arrows there, and another bow that you may like better than the two you have. We're also going to check you out on firearms."

"Okay." Clint turned off the television, picking up his bows and heading for the door.

"ID, Barton."

"Oh, yeah." Putting his bows down, Clint clipped the badge onto his shirt. "Good?"

"Better." Coulson led the way out of the room and to the elevator. Hitting one of the buttons, Clint felt the elevator start to descend. "The range is in the basement, be prepared to be spending a lot of time there over the next week, and if you stick around, you'll be expected to be there daily. Early morning is usually one of the better times, since everybody at SHIELD is expected to be qualified on at least one firearm and the scientists here have a tendency to go in the afternoon and early evening." The elevator slowed, then stopped.

Clint wasn't sure what to expect when the door to the range opened, but he knew that it wouldn't be the pile of straw with paper stuck to it that he normally used to practice. Coulson showed him the armory, handing Clint a quiver with arrows and picking up a case. "Bow first. Let's see your two, then I want you to try out one of ours. After that, firearms."

Clint nodded, slinging the quiver over his back. Heading to a lane, he put the bows down on the table, before pulling out an arrow and taking a look at it. It was a bit lighter than what he was used to, but he figured that it wouldn't be a problem. He looked over at Coulson.

"Five arrows with each bow at each distance, I'll call out targets."

Clint nodded, taking a deep breath, before starting. He very quickly fell into a smooth rhythm, shifting targets as Coulson called them out, and only when his hand reached into the empty quiver did he realize that he'd gone through all the arrows and both of his bows. The targets were riddled with arrows in small groups.

Coulson nodded. "Take a break while the range gets reset. Have a drink, then I want you to try this out." He handed Clint a bottle of water, then opened one of the cases, revealing a compound bow. Clint ignored the water, staring at the bow, one hand stretched out. This wasn't one for showing off or performing for a group, this was a bow that was meant to be used to shoot arrows. A bow that made the archer in him drool, one that he'd never be able to afford, not that it'd be good to use in the circus. It wouldn't put the audience in the right mindset. "Hold on Barton, wait for the range to be cleared, and you'll need more arrows."

Clint heard the instructions, but still reached out to pick up the bow. Putting the water down, he held the bow up, drawing the string back. It felt...right, a promise that the past twenty years of his life hadn't been for nothing. He looked at Coulson, releasing the tension on the bow and lowering it. "I'm in."

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that, because I do not want to hear your answer until I ask for it." Coulson didn't look at Clint, instead accepting a full quiver from one of the workers at the range, passing it to Clint. "So, try this one out."

Clint obeyed. The bow was even better than he'd first thought, and he wasn't quite sure, but he thought that his accuracy at the longest ranges even increased slightly. He loved it, and didn't want the feeling to end. A tap on his shoulder startled him, and he released the string sloppily, hissing slightly as it slapped against his arm.

"That's good," Coulson said. "How do you feel?"

Clint shrugged. "Good. It's a nice bow, easy to use."

"No problems going from the straight or recurve to a compound? Need gloves or a bracer?"

Clint looked down at his hands and arms. "Yeah, probably should have used them." He shrugged. "But this once won't do anything terrible."

A pair of gloves were tossed down onto the table, followed by earplugs and glasses. "Firearms. What can you tell me about safety?"

Clint regretfully put the bow down, and slid on the gloves. "Always assume a gun is loaded, even if it isn't. Don't point it at anybody. Guns are not toys."

"Good for now. Range rules for firearms. Always wear gloves and eye and hearing protection. Shoot only at your assigned target. Follow all instructions of the rangemaster. This particular room is for things with a shorter range, we made an exception for your bows this morning although that may change depending on what the analysts say after they get a look at the video. There are other places to use bigger things, we've got a range that's a bit longer also on this level. SHIELD has a wide variety of handguns; we'll start you off with this one today. It's a Beretta, one of the more popular guns here." One of the range workers had come over while Coulson was talking. Coulson moved back, and the man placed a handgun down on the table, along with two clips. "I'm Joe. So. Safety is here, this is how you load it."

Clint followed the instructions. The sound of the gun firing made him jump, and he saw that he not only missed the center of the target, he had missed the target completely. Coulson and Joe nodded, as if they were having suspicions confirmed. Throttling down his irritation at his failure, Clint simply listened to the instructions he was given, adjusting his stance, his grip, and tried again. He hit the target this time. At the indication that he should keep firing, he emptied the clip, and then the second, with the last three shots if not dead center, then pretty close.

"Good," Coulson sounded slightly surprised. "Your assignment is to spend at least ninety minutes each day with firearms until told otherwise." He sat down with Clint, giving him a lesson in cleaning his weapons, glancing at his watch. "Dentist."

Clint was meek during the dental exam, if only because he could see that the instruments they were putting in his mouth were _very_ sharp and pointed, and Coulson was standing right there, looking at Clint with a warning in his eyes. He was handed more papers, as well as a warning from the dentist – follow the instructions, or else he'd be lucky to still have all his teeth by the time he hit thirty. As it was, he needed to return later in the week to get the cavities filled. But, he was handed a small bag with a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and dental floss and the admonition to _use_ them. A side trip to his room let Clint drop everything off, rinse his mouth out again, and then Coulson led him to the mess hall, leaving him there with a reminder that he was not to leave the room until Coulson personally returned in no more than thirty minutes.

Eyeing the options, Clint chose things that looked soft, mindful of his sore mouth. Finding a seat at an empty table, he sat with his back to the wall and slowly started eating. He looked up as a tray was placed on the table across from him and the man from yesterday – Sitwell, he remembered – sat down.

"Fun stuff here, huh?" Sitwell looked excited. "I knew that there were breakthroughs being made, but not at the level that they had here! Just think, that new mobile phone technology? They've somehow managed to combine it with an alpha-numeric pager. Imagine what sorts of things can be done with that!" He looked at Clint as more people sat down at the table. "What have they been having you do?"

Clint shrugged. "Orientation. Shooting. Testing. Dragged me to the dentist this morning. Stuff like that." He was starting to feel boxed in, and the looks that a couple of the men were giving him was putting him on edge. He focused on the fruit cup he'd grabbed, scooping out a piece of strawberry.

"Dentist? Why?" One of the guys sitting next to Sitwell leaned over.

"Yeah." Clint didn't feel like explaining. "Just 'cause." He finished the fruit, and picked up the pudding.

"So, why are you here? You're not science, and not tech." The man kept on digging. "Only saw you yesterday morning; all the other group stuff you haven't been at. And shooting? Already? They aren't letting us near the range until we've gone through all the classroom sessions first."

Clint's eyes darted around the room, looking for an out. He got it, as he saw Coulson making his way across the room. He shrugged again, eating his pudding quickly. "Not science or tech."

"He's security, and that's all that you need to know at this point in time, Mr. Jones, which is why he is already going to the range." Clint had been expecting Coulson's voice, but the men on the other side of the table hadn't, and they all jumped. "You might want to work on your situational awareness, gentlemen. Had you been looking, Mr. Barton's movements and tracking of my path across the room, as well as his increased speed in eating, would have suggested that there was somebody important, to him at least, approaching. Mr. Barton, are you finished?"

"Yes, sir." Clint stood, picking up his tray.

"Leave it. We've places to be, and I'm sure that Mr. Jones will be more than pleased to clear your tray for you."

Clint hesitated, glancing between Coulson, his tray, and Jones, who was turning slightly red.

"I'll get it, you go on." Sitwell was obviously trying to salvage the situation. "He obviously looks busy."

"Barton!" Coulson's voice rang out.

"Yes sir, Agent Coulson," Clint said, hurrying to catch up. He ignored the snickers he could hear from behind him, as well as Sitwell firmly telling Jones that he was acting just like those bullies in high school, and since did he really want to annoy somebody going into security?

"You have a cover story, for now. You've been brought in as security, and anything other than that those folks don't need to know. You can tell them about you, but as to why you're here...just security." Coulson stopped in front of a door. "This is my office. Time to talk about the past day and a half."

Coulson waved Clint to a seat, then sat down behind a desk. Picking up a folder, he glanced at it, then at Clint. "If rules didn't prohibit us from competing professionally, you'd be out on that circuit both for archery and handguns so fast your head would spin, and the higher-ups are looking forward to what you can do with a bit more practice and the larger guns. We'll sneak you into sniper school someplace; they can teach you the finer points better than any of the instructors here can. Reports from medical and the dentist don't suggest that you'll need much in the way of their tender mercies, and by the time that they've done all that they want to you still won't be ready to go out in the field; it takes a while to train up field operatives like yourself." He turned a page, glancing down at the folder. "Now for the bad news. You've got, barely, a fifth-grade educational level based on your background; testing actually puts you at a bit more of a _third _grade level." He leaned back in his chair, staring at Clint. "You will need to get your GED, preferably by your 21st birthday." A brief flicker of his eyes, as well as a slight draft of air across Clint's neck as he heard the door click allowed the young man to brace himself for whoever was walking in the room.

"SHIELD prefers college degrees for people in your position, Mr. Barton, but we're willing to make an exception because we can _use_ you." It was Fury, and a flash of approval in Coulson's eyes at Clint's lack of response gave Clint an odd feeling. He walked around, leaning on the edge of Coulson's desk and stared at Clint. "So, Mr. Barton. Do you think that you can do what we're asking you to do, or are you heading back to the circus?"

"Agent Coulson told me that I had a week to answer and I had to wait the week," Clint replied. "Sir." He added as an afterthought; it seemed like the right thing to do. Something about the Director put him on edge, and he felt a slow burn of anger starting to build. "I'm going to wait that week."

"I'm not Agent Coulson, and I'm asking you now. Can you, will you, do what we're asking you to do, Mr. Barton, or will we be packing you back to Coney Island and your bed on a ledge right now?"

Clint's eyes narrowed and he stood up, leaning forward into Fury's personal space. "Yes," he hissed. "I'm in. You bastards knew that as soon as I walked through the damned door yesterday, didn't you." A sideways glance at Coulson showed the man sitting back in his chair, watching, a neutral expression on his face. Staring straight into Fury's one eye, he repeated, "Didn't you."

"Sit _down_, Barton." Fury pushed Clint back, hand heavy in the middle of his chest. "You had better learn that that punk-ass attitude you're sporting right now isn't a good way to get anywhere, _especially_ around here, and learn it fast."

Clint sat down, still glaring at Fury. "Not likely." He was shocked by the reaction he got – instead of anger at Clint's sullen mutter, Fury laughed, and Coulson even grinned. Clint still felt angry, but at the fact that the men were laughing and it was not at the situation.

"Good," Fury chuckled, pulling a badge from his pocket, tossing it onto Clint's lap. "Good, Probationary Agent Barton. Keep that attitude, but know when to use it and when to sit your ass down and shut the hell up. Coulson, he's still your problem." He stepped around Clint, lightly cuffing the archer on his ear, then left the room.

Coulson was actually laughing when Clint turned back around from watching the door. "So. You don't need an escort anymore, but I'd recommend using one, at least until the end of the week." Clint nodded. "New hire paperwork can wait until tomorrow, when I've some time to go over it with you." All humor left Coulson's face. "Five months, Barton, that's how much time you've got to get your GED." He leaned over, putting a couple thick books on the desk. A piece of paper was put on top. "Here's your schedule. Half a day training, half a day in here studying." A portable cassette player was added to the pile and a box of cassettes placed next to it. "If you are on the range or in the gym and want to listen to some of the taped GED study stuff. Only when you're given permission, though, at the range." Pointing at the badge in Clint's lap, he continued, "put that one, give me your old one." A small booklet was also placed on the desk with a keyring as Clint changed badges, tossing the old one on the desk. "Phone numbers and some other information, and keys for the elevators, your room, armory locker, and gym locker." He stood up, picking up some of the things on the desk. "Let's go put this stuff away in your room and go to supply; you need uniforms."

Amused, Clint picked up the rest of the things from Coulson's desk and followed the man out, heading back to his room. "Are there maps of this place or something?"

"No, but you'll learn your way around quickly, and the booklet has the floors of everything important." Coulson stood to one side of the hallway as a group of people approached. "The number you were given will also help; your room is on the 9th floor, medical, dental, mess hall are on the 7th floor, my office and meeting rooms are on the 3rd floor. Ranges are the basement levels. There was a purpose to that number, obviously. We weren't one hundred percent sure that you'd be able to learn your way around as fast as some. We don't know a lot about you, really, so it's a learning process on both sides. Besides," he glanced over at Clint, "you probably won't be here for much longer than five, six months."

The group that passed them had all the other recruits in it. Sitwell nodded at Clint, and Jones took one look at the books Clint was holding and started to smirk. Clint felt himself flushing, coming up with a few responses, but his thoughts were interrupted by Coulson kicking his ankle.

"They get their introduction to the range Friday. I can try to make sure that you're there if you want to watch. Just look at it this way, you can be called Agent now, Barton, and they're all still Miss or Mister."

Clint just shrugged, feeling awkward and slightly upset as he started walking. It wasn't his fault, much, that he didn't have the same background as the rest of the people here.

"It's your background that got us interested in you, Barton, not your level of education." Coulson was starting to sound annoyed. "If we wanted just a smart-ass sniper, we could have recruited from four different military branches in the US alone. Now stop thinking and get a move on, you've stuff to do."

Supply was on level six, and seemed to be better equipped than both the Army-Navy store and the K-Mart Clint had gone to, combined. He followed Coulson, glancing around at what was being offered, to the counter where a man was sitting there, playing with a deck of cards.

"Need a kit," Coulson spoke briskly. "Ops."

"Code?" The man didn't even look up as he reached out for a binder.

"Four-alpha-niner-seven-three-charlie-bravo-hotel-echo." Coulson rattled off. "Agent's name is Barton, Clinton Francis." Glancing at Clint, he said, "that's all written down in your guide, and on the back of your badge. Learn it, and don't forget it."

After leafing through the binder, the man finally looked up. "Alrighty then," the man said, standing up. "Barton, is it? Need to know sizes."

What followed was a very long hour while Clint was made to try on clothing, shoes, various security items, and even a suit. He was finally allowed to leave, loaded down with bags, and followed Coulson back to his room. He dumped it all on the bed, and glanced between the wardrobe and the bags.

"You'll have more than one room, and you've got multiples of everything." Coulson was sorting out the bags. "SHIELD has multiple facilities, and it's easiest to have one set of gear at the places you're at the most. Put a week's worth away, store the rest on top of the wardrobe and under the bed. You'll probably bounce between two or three different places. If stuff starts to not fit well, bring it back to supply and swap it out." He pulled out some clothes, handing them to Clint. "Basic security uniform, go put this on. Skip the armor for today, you won't be carrying a gun yet, wear a holster, you have thigh, belt, and shoulder, but you'll choose one depending on what else you're wearing. Most people use thigh holsters, unless they're in a suit. Easier to get to. Learn what everything looks like because this is what you'll be wearing for the foreseeable future. There are a few variations, but you'll learn them as you go."

As Clint took the clothes into the bathroom to get changed, he slumped against the wall, feeling shaky and shocked at how fast everything was going. He moved over to the sink, leaning against it and staring at himself in the mirror. "Get a grip, Barton," he mumbled. "You can do it. It's just like prison, but better. You wanted some security." He felt a slight prickling behind his eyes, and quickly splashed some cold water on his face, before taking a deep breath and changing into the uniform before heading back into the main room.

Coulson was sitting at the desk, glancing at his watch. "Need to get a move on. Do you think you can find your way to orientation on your own? I need to do some other stuff."

Numbly, Clint nodded. Orientation yesterday had been simple, and he'd been able to just sit and listen. Today would probably be more of the same. Hopefully be more of the same. He followed Coulson out, turning to lock the door, and took the elevator down, slipping into the meeting room. He was the last one to arrive, and he ducked his head as he quickly walked around to an empty chair.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Barton," Agent Smith said, dryly. She then saw what he was wearing and took a second look at his ID badge. "Correction, Agent Barton. Welcome." If she was surprised by the change in Clint's status after such a short period of time, she didn't show it. "Now, we were going over the basics of the different organizational levels here, and how they coordinate between sections."

"Wait a minute," Jones interrupted. "Does he even need to be here? Can't he just get whatever security briefings he needs and the rest of us can talk in a language that he won't understand?"

Clint felt his face go blank, then inspiration struck. This guy was acting like one kid in the orphanage, so long ago. "You know, Jones, if I'm in security, working with all the other security guards, here to keep you safe from outside sources, do you _really_ want to piss me off?"

Agent Smith opened her mouth, then stopped at Clint's raised hand. "Besides, _Mister_ Jones, I really don't see you making many friends right now." He glanced around the table. Sitwell looked like he was enjoying the show, and the rest looked like they didn't know who to look at or how to react.

Suddenly exhausted, Clint sat back in his chair. "Sorry, Agent Smith."

She nodded, then continued lecturing. It went much the same as yesterday, and Clint tried to remember it all. He hoped that all this was written down someplace. He'd ask Coulson later, and suspected that he'd pick it all up as he went along; it seemed like that was what normally happened anyways.

After they were released, Clint hung back as Agent Smith ushered everybody out, before wandering out and down the hall towards Coulson's office. Knocking on the door, he leaned his head against the doorjamb.

"Barton?" Coulson was standing there, holding a stack of files. "Sorry, didn't realize you were done. You're not needing to do anything else today, so you can head back down to the range, go to the gym, start studying, whatever."

"Shooting scientists." Clint said. "You said something about getting me in the range with the scientists when they go down there for their first time?"

"Yes," Coulson said, giving Clint a pointed glance. "What were you thinking."

"Can I do more than just be there?"

Coulson opened the door, motioning Clint inside. "I'll make a deal with you. Follow the schedule I gave you earlier, and I'll talk with Joe and Steve. Jones being a pain again?"

"He's an ass. Sitwell told him at lunch that he was acting like a high school bully. Isn't there a whole thing about that?"

"Ah." Coulson nodded. "Geeks, nerds, and jocks. Jones was probably a geek, and you present more as a jock, who would have had the power in high school because they were athletes, and weren't seen as 'smart,' having more brawn, strength, than brains. Jocks generally picked on the geeks and the nerds, who were the scientific and technical types, the ones who played table-top games, debated over if Star Trek or Star Wars was better, that sort of thing. But now, he's realized that he has the ability to give himself power over you, and make himself feel better about the problems he had when he was younger. We see that with a few recruits every time, and they usually turn around, leave, or don't get very far. But I think I see where you're going with this, and I'll see what I can do." He picked up his phone, waving Clint out. "But can't do that if you're taking up space in here."

Clint nodded, heading for the elevator and the range. Maybe he could use that compound bow some more, too.


	4. Wednesday to Friday

Clint has talent...and discovers the joy of pranking the scientists.

* * *

Wednesday was the first day of Clint's new schedule. Discovering that the range opened early, Clint didn't waste time in his room, this time stopping at the mess hall for breakfast before making his way into the basement. There was one other person there, who introduced himself as "Steve, one of the instructors, Joe and Phil said you'd probably be down here about now," but beyond that, the range was empty.

He spent a few hours that morning working with Steve, until the instructor just shook his head and said that Clint just needed to learn the particulars about the different guns and practice with them all, but he was one of those who could pick up a weapon and successfully hit the target. "It's like you've got eagle eyes, or something, kid, making those bullets go just where you want them too. Same time tomorrow, I've got a few tricks to start teaching you. But for now, I get to go teach the rest of the new recruits how to not shoot their feet off." He left the room, grimacing.

"Not eagle, hawk," Clint murmured as he sat at a table, cleaning the weapons. He glanced up as Coulson sat down across from him. "Morning."

"Morning. Ready for some fighting lessons?" Coulson glanced at the guns on the table. "How did you like working with Steve?"

"Good," Clint nodded, as he took the guns to be put away. "It was fun." Turning, he looked at Coulson. "Where can I go to shoot my bows?"

"I'll show you that later, since Steve will meet us there to go over some of the larger weapons with you."

Clint had excellent body memory, and zero fear of falling or even of getting hurt. What all that meant was that, like shooting, he picked up the basics of fighting very quickly. His lack of stamina, though, meant that he was done much quicker than he had hoped, but he was reassured that given some time, it would get better. Walking back to his room for a shower, Clint was struck by an idea.

He wandered into Coulson's office, hair still damp, holding a tray with two meals on it. "Think somebody can make me a bow I can fight with? Like a quarterstaff?"

"Hello, Barton, please, come in, Barton," Coulson said, not answering his question or looking up from his desk. "Thank you for knocking, Barton. And to answer your question, don't know, but probably. Is that refried beans I smell?"

"Yeah, I was warned away from the chicken by Agent Morse."

Coulson nodded. "Finding good cooks is so hard sometimes, you never eat the chicken here. Thanks. I guess since you're here we can get started on this employment paperwork. You have atrocious handwriting, Barton, so just talk me through the information."

"What's atrocious?"

Coulson shook his head. "Dictionary. You'll need one, obviously. That is, if you can even _spell_ those words. Atrocious. Really, really bad. Practically unreadable, unless you're writing big and concentrating on it. These forms, though, don't have space for that and I don't have the time."

The two men ate, before Coulson picked up a file folder, opening it with a sigh. "We have computers, we just don't use them. Be so much easier...alright, Barton. Filled out what I could, now for what I can't. Religion?"

"Huh?"

"Do you feel a need to go to church? Do you believe in a higher power? Do you believe that Jesus lived and died for our sins? In short, do you associate with any organized or unorganized religion?"

"Never really thought about it beyond 'Please God, let me get fed?' and 'Please God, don't let this go to trial?'"

"Agnostic, then, and you can change it later. Next of kin? Who do you want everything sent to if you happen to die?"

"Nobody."

Luckily for Clint, there were very few questions that he needed to answer, and Coulson sent him to return the tray and pick up his study material. As Clint walked down the hall, books in hand, he couldn't decide if he was feeling dread or excitement. It had hurt, being told that he was pretty much a third-grader, and that he only had five months to learn nine years worth of information. On the other hand, he did – kinda – like learning.

The problem was that he had hated school. It had always ended up as an orphanage-vs-town fight, and the teachers really didn't care about who won or lost, although it seemed that the town kids won a whole lot more, if only because they were punished _less_. By the fifth grade the situation had become unbearable for Clint, and he rarely went to school – sure, he walked out the front door with everybody else, but between the orphanage and the school, he vanished to climb a tree, spending the day either hiding or sitting under a window at school, eavesdropping.

Coulson waved Clint over to a desk in the corner. "Sit there and study." Taking a good look at Clint's face, he shook his head. "Get through one chapter of math, and that's an order, Barton." He tossed a blank notebook and a pencil onto the desk. The sooner you get this done, the sooner I can stop sharing my office."

Clint tried, but was relieved when he looked at his watch and saw that it was time for dinner. Leaving his studying materials in Coulson's office, he chose to eat in his room that night, watching TV, before going back to the range.

Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday, except that Clint was shown the other firing range, and was invited by Steve to assist when the scientists started to learn how to shoot. Less as an actual instructor, and more as a willing victim and partner-in-crime, but Clint was happy to be able to show people that he was more than just a guy dressed like a security guard. When he went to study, Clint realized that he hadn't remembered much from the day before, and so spent the afternoon, again, trying to teach himself math, before retreating for some much desired time shooting his bows.

"Barton," Steve nodded when Clint arrived at the range Friday morning. "Thanks for doing this."

Clint shrugged. "Scientists are pissing me off. I like shooting."

Steve laughed. "Yeah, the ones they get here have a tendency to do that at first. Something about how SHIELD is at the," he coughed, and spoke in a snobbish tone, "'forefront of technological advances, scientific research, and other things that you won't understand' as I was told by one of the scientists years ago." He shrugged. "Then they come in here and the tables are turned." He grinned. "It's a nice turn around, although it usually takes a bit for some of them to realize that everybody here has value and can contribute equally in their own manner. Most of them realize that, and so they're all cool about the fact that they don't talk technical, I don't give them impossible challenges. I teach shooting, I help run the range, I keep, well, kept now, them safe from SHIELD's enemies. You're here to do the same."

Clint nodded. The older man's word's made sense, even if he didn't understand it all. "Who are SHIELD's enemies?"

"Many. You'll be told, eventually, but patience, young Jedi. This is just your fifth day here, and people are usually here for decades. The number one cause of retirement is age."

"Jedi? What's that?"

Steve stared at Clint, question in his eyes. "You never saw Star Wars, did you."

Clint shook his head. "Haven't seen a television in years, and even then I never got to choose what was on."

"You poor, poor kid. I'm posted here permanently now, and I've a whole movie collection for you to watch. I'll have some for you to borrow tomorrow. The rooms here all have VCRs."

Clint nodded his thanks as he turned to the armory, looking over what he had. He reached for the compound bow and a quiver, pulling on gloves and strapping on a bracer. He glanced over at Steve. "So?"

"I'm thinking Beretta." Steve glanced around. "Shotgun. I always like to show people what they can use and what they technically can't, yet." He looked at Clint. "Skip the bow, even though it's really what you do best."

Clint grinned, putting the bow and quiver down on a table at a lane at the far end and stretching, as Steve pulled out the guns, and ammunition, placing them down on tables in different lanes. Picking up the bow, Clint looked at it closely, checking to make sure that it all appeared to be in working order. He took a couple shots, then started doing tricks. It wasn't that this plain vanilla shooting was boring, but he knew that if he went more than a few days without practice, the fancy stuff started becoming difficult. Glancing around, he put the bow down and jumped up, testing if a beam would hold his weight.

"Ask about that first, Barton." Steve was watching. "That's a support beam, so you're good, but folks tend to get upset if you break a gas line without good reason. Just be sure to avoid any colored pipes, in this building, at least."

Clint nodded, swinging his legs up and over the beam, flipping upside down. "Hand me my bow?"

Instead, Steve passed up Clint's earplugs and safety glasses, followed by the Beretta. "Try this instead; I'm curious."

Clint nodded, taking aim and squeezing the trigger. Glancing down at Steve, Clint smiled at the look on the man's face as he pulled out the ear plugs, letting them dangle from their cord. "Not hard."

Steve just shook his head. "Where did they find you, Barton? You've got eyes like an eagle, you use a freaking bow and arrows that look like they came from the Middle Ages, and you've got the ability to do some pretty crazy tricks."

"Hawk, not eagle." Clint put the gun in his thigh holster before swinging down. "Circus."

"Huh." Steve nodded. "Can see that." He turned, watching as a group entered the room in a clump. "Let's do this and show these geeks that they really do need us around."

As the scientists gathered in a clump at the back of the room, Steve directed Clint to gather ear and eye protection and hand it out. Nodding, Clint found the box and walked through the group, handing it all out as Steve talked.

"Take a pair of earmuffs and a pair of safety glasses from Agent Barton. Put the glasses on immediately, earmuffs when I tell you to. So. Welcome to the range. As I have instructed you in the classroom, here I am one of the few who are in charge. If you do not follow my instructions, you will be asked to leave, and you do not want to be asked to leave; everybody here is required to be qualified in at least one firearm as I have said before. Agent Barton has agreed to demonstrate for you two different weapons; a handgun and a shotgun. If Agent Barton would step to the firing line and, with his Beretta, fire two shots standing at one, two shots kneeling at two, and two shots prone at three? Earmuffs on, everybody."

Clint adjusted his earplugs, then took the six shots as requested, hearing Steve talk louder, describing just what he was doing. Turning, he watched as Steve motioned that the ear protection could come off.

"Please take a look at the set of targets Agent Barton was using." Steve had brought the target in, and was holding it up as Clint reloaded. "We do not expect you to achieve this sort of accuracy, we just want you to hit the target reliably. Please also note, and you will have to take my word for this, Agent Barton is currently shooting at a competition level, yes, he's just that damn good. Now, please go to a station, where we will be putting into practice what you are all so able to tell me about in exhausting detail in the classroom, I'm looking at _you_, Miss Brown."

Clint holstered his gun as Steve walked over. "This is where I can use your help." Holding out a box of noisemakers, Steve asked, "Think you can toss some of these out at random times? Wait until everybody has had a chance to take a couple shots, and no closer than three feet in front of the firing line. Normally I do it, but I think that having you do it will let me focus better overall."

Grinning, Clint nodded and accepted the box, tucking it into a pocket. Walking down to the far end of the range, he waited until nobody was looking, then jumped up, easily pulling himself onto the beam. Inching along it, he stopped in the middle of the room, putting his earplugs back in, before pulling the box out and opening it. He watched as the recruits fired, only a couple hitting the targets, before taking out a noisemaker and tossing it over Sitwell's head. The resulting bang made everybody jump, and Clint felt an odd sense of glee and had to swallow the urge to laugh. He tossed a second, this time in front of the station where Steve was patiently assisting a small woman.

Scooting further down the beam, Clint noticed a second one, slightly higher. Sitting up, he tested it with one hand – no colors, it felt sturdy, and it was even more in the shadows. He climbed up, tossing a third noisemaker.

"Five bucks to anybody who can tell me just who is doing all this, and where they are at!" Steve sounded angry as Clint tossed two more.

"It's probably Barton," Sitwell didn't quite yell, but he was close to it. Clint shifted further into the shadows on the beam, taking off his safety glasses and tucking them inside his shirt. Possible reflections and all that.

"Cease fire!" Steve announced as Clint tossed out one more noisemaker. "Earmuffs off." Clint pulled out his earplugs as he watched everybody else gather around Steve. "So, Mr. Sitwell. You're saying that it's Barton, correct? Then where is he?" Seeing Sitwell shrug, he looked at the rest of the group. "Anybody?" When nobody answered, he just yelled out, "Barton!"

Clint dropped down, landing lightly behind the recruits. "Sir?" He enjoyed watching them jump, and a small smile cross Steve's face. Shouldering his way through the group, he held out the box. "Thanks for letting me play with these."

"Not done playing yet, Agent Barton," Steve corrected, reaching behind him and picking up a shotgun. "Think you can do more of what you were doing earlier?"

In response, Clint simply slid his glasses back on and his earplugs in, before heading to the firing line and jumping up to the beam. Hooking one leg over it, he let himself swing upside down before holding out his hand. "What's it loaded with?"

"Slugs." Steve answered as he passed over the gun. "Now, folks, this is not proper weapons handling, and I _really_ shouldn't be letting Agent Barton be doing this. However, there are some skills that some people have, and getting a chance to see those skills is rare, so enjoy this treat. Agent Barton will be firing two shots with this shotgun. As you will, Barton." He leaned closer, plucking one earplug out, and whispered "feel free to finish with a couple shots from your handgun. These folks are pissing me off, too." He shoved the earplug back in.

Clint nodded, as he stared downrange, calculating angles and trajectories. It was something that he didn't even realize that he was doing, but he raised the shotgun, squeezing off two shots, automatically compensating for the fact that the recoil sent him rocking. Before the echos had faded, he had shifted the shotgun to one hand, drawn his Beretta with his other and quickly fired off the entire clip, making a rough smiley face in the target. He holstered the handgun, then reached up, grabbed the beam, and dropped to the floor. Putting the shotgun down on the table, he calmly dropped his glasses and earplugs next to it, then reloaded both guns without looking at anybody.

"And this is why, ladies and gentlemen, you should always respect all other SHIELD employees. Agent Barton, where were you earlier?"

Clint pointed up. "Lots of nice places up there."

"Situational awareness. Yes, Agent Barton and I are here as security for all of you, but there are always situations where you will need to be cognizant of what is going on, both here at SHIELD and out in the rest of the world. Thank you, Agent Barton."

Clint nodded, walking down to the end of the range and picking up his bow and quiver. He still had some time before lunch, and he wanted to delay having to study for as long as possible. One of the books had a list of math equations that were used, and it said the test was mostly multiple choice, but that still didn't mean anything since it felt like he wasn't remembering anything at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint emotional whumpage, and Coulson points out a few hard truths.

* * *

Days turned into weeks, and Clint found that he, for once, was happy. He thought he was getting a hang of how the place worked, and his mornings were filled with time spent in the gym and at the range. Afternoons, he usually managed two hours of studying before giving up and just pretending to read the books and toss out snarky comments to Coulson, and evenings were either back at the range, in the gym, or watching a movie. He had asked Coulson about maybe getting something fun to read; Coulson had nodded, but hadn't found anything yet.

"Barton." Coulson interrupted Clint one afternoon. "I scheduled you to try the test next week since your birthday is in two. However, that means that you need some ID other than your SHIELD identification. Get some street clothes on, meet me at the front in fifteen minutes."

Clint found himself bustled into the subway, then into a line in a busy office. "Driver's license?"

"You know how to drive, wouldn't you like to be able to drive legally?" Coulson's voice was neutral. "Here," he handed Clint a pile of papers. "Don't be an ass."

Clint flipped through the pile. "I have an address?"

"Later, Barton." Coulson sighed. "You can have one of your freak outs after we're done here, when you're pretending to study."

That, combined with the idea that he had a permanent address, was enough to give Clint pause, so they were through the line and back on the subway before he could come up with a response. "I don't freak out."

"And yet, you don't argue that you're just pretending to study, and not using the resources available to you." Coulson pointed out dryly. "I'm trying to understand just how you can _be_ so smart and yet act so...stupid. And yes, you freak out. It's usually when somebody finds you hanging upside down using your recurve, or perched up high someplace making _everybody_ nervous by watching them and making your usual smart-ass comments. You were surprisingly effective in teaching the new agents paranoia; I'm going to suggest that we use you for that for future groups."

Clint shrugged, fiddling with his new license. "They were annoying me, and still do. So I don't have a college degree, much less one from someplace fancy, doesn't make them better."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "So you pass your GED, then go _get_ a college degree. SHIELD will pay for it; they have for other people. There are half a dozen colleges and universities that have agreements with us." He swore as he watched Barton suddenly dart out at the next stop, running to follow. "Dammit, Barton!"

He followed Clint up and out of the subway, watching as the younger man slipped through the crowd with ease. Coulson would admit to a little jealousy: a teenager in an old, oversized Army jacket racing through the crowds drew no attention, while his suit got a few stares. He followed as Barton dashed across the street and into Central Park, then slowed down when he realized just where the younger man was most likely going. Taking the time to enjoy the fresh air, Coulson strolled over to a bench by the carousel and sat down next to Clint. Leaning back, Coulson glanced at the people standing in line for a chance to ride, keeping a watch on the figure slumped next to him.

"You do sulky teenager very well, I don't think you got anybody staring at you when you did your little dash." Coulson finally said, a laugh forcing its way out when Clint only flipped him off, then laughing again when Clint sat up, staring at him in surprise. "I'm not allowed to find something funny?" A scowl was the only response he got, with Clint firmly crossing his arms in front of his chest and slumping against the back of the bench. Sighing, Coulson dug in his pocket for some coins. "Well, this day is a wash. Stay there, I need to go call in."

"Don't need a keeper." Clint's voice had a mixture of tones. Anger, panic, and tears all battled for dominance as he shook his head fiercely. "And I'm not a kid. I'm _not_."

"Actually," Coulson started, then realized how Clint was sounding. He sighed, again. "No, you're not, even though you sure act like one sometimes. But you're my responsibility until I'm told otherwise, which won't be until you're all done with training at the very least. So you're stuck with me, not the other way around." He glanced over, seeing Clint scrubbing at his face with one sleeve. "Wait here," he said, standing up. He'd been warned that something like this might happen based on Clint's background and reactions over the past few months; the psychiatrist was itching to get Clint into his office, but Coulson was fighting to keep that from happening. A tentative truce had been formed between the two: Coulson would keep the psychiatrist aware of any problems, and was taught a few tricks for emergencies. He cut in line at a hot dog vendor, grabbing a handful of paper napkins, before returning to the bench, handing them to Clint. "These might be better." Coulson mentally crossed his fingers that Clint would pull himself together and have his little break down someplace more controlled, like back at SHIELD. In a secured room, with nothing that could be used as a weapon. Clint was taking to the physical fighting aspects of his new life with enthusiasm and talent. By all reports, he was beyond where the trainers wanted him by a good two months, if not three, and had the skills to easily kill a man using a variety of things. His favorite for close-in work was a knife, but Coulson had seen him going after his trainer with a pencil one day.

Clint nodded, taking them and shoving them into a pocket. "I...you..." he started, then suddenly discovered that he couldn't get enough air. He felt a squeeze in his chest, and he started shaking. The world didn't go away, but his vision narrowed and went gray, and he felt his fingers start to go numb.

"Barton...Barton..." Coulson's voice sounded like it was coming from a mile away. "Clint, listen to me. Just breath. In, and out. In, and out." Coulson's voice was calm, and the firm tone helped Clint focus. Slowly the world came back, and he uncurled from the ball he found himself in, seeing Coulson kneeling on the ground in front of him. Coulson's hand on his foot kept him from bolting again, and helped Clint center. "Better? Panic attacks are never fun, are they."

Clint shook his head, feeling like he wanted to cry, then bury himself in a hole for the next decade. He hid his face in his sleeve, only to feel Coulson digging in the pocket where he'd stuck the napkins, pressing one into his hand.

"Use this, Clint, not your sleeve. You're making people think you were raised in the circus, or something!" Coulson's light tone forced a shaky laugh from Clint, as he wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

"You called me Clint. You never call me Clint. Nobody calls me Clint anymore, it's always Agent or Barton," Clint realized that he was babbling, as Coulson moved back to the bench, rubbing a hand across Clint's shoulders.

"Is that what was bugging you?" Coulson deliberately kept his tone light and unconcerned. "What people call you?"

Clint shrugged. "Yes. No. I don't know." He didn't pull away from Coulson's hand, leaning into the touch slightly and pulling his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.

Coulson nodded, thinking quickly. "I think you need a couple days off. Let me go call in and let them know that we'll be gone for the rest of the day, then we can go do whatever you want. Okay?" He pointed to a payphone. "Stay here, or come call in with me, up to you." He stood up.

Clint followed, leaning against the side of the booth. "Can we go to the mountains? I've never really had a chance to see them."

"Not today, it's too late," Coulson said, picking up the payphone and dropping in a quarter. "But tomorrow. Think about what you want to do for the rest of today, preferably here in New York...yes, Agent Smith please. It's Agent Coulson. Thanks. Delores? Phil. Yeah, Barton," he glanced over at Clint, "_Clint_, got his license. We're taking the rest of the day and tomorrow. Yes. Yes. I'm training him, don't you _think_ that he'd behave himself? Yes. If you go into my office, file's on my desk, only one there. Look, Delores, he's not _yours_, he's _mine_, and if you could get some of those scientists to use their _damn_ brains for once, everybody would be a lot happier and I wouldn't be thinking the things I'm thinking right now. Sorry. Sorry. I've got to go, can I meet with you later? Tomorrow, maybe? I do have things to do other than talk on a phone in Central Park. Thanks. Bye." He hung up the phone with a huff. "Scientists." The sour look on his face made Clint laugh.

"I don't know, I kinda like Agent Smith." he offered.

"She does the grandmother thing very well, if only because she is one," Coulson acknowledged, "but sometimes she takes it too far. You're also my first assignment of this type, thanks to a recent promotion, and she's been doing this for a while, so she doesn't always think I know what I'm doing."

Clint shrugged. "Dunno. Hey, can we go check out the Met? I've always heard people talk about it."

"Sure, it's not too far away." Coulson glanced over at Clint in surprise. "You like art?"

"Dunno." Clint shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. "Haven't seen much, but the tourists at Coney Island were always talking about the museums here. Never had the time or money to come see what the hype was about."

Clint decided that the museum was pretty fun, the mountains more so.

* * *

When the knock on his bedroom door came, Coulson groaned, turning off the TV and tossing the blanket over his bed. There, room looked presentable enough. Opening the door, he sighed. "Delores. Couldn't this wait until tomorrow? I just spent all day chasing Clint around the Poconos."

The older woman just handed him a mug, then pushed past him into the room. "Barton is why I'm here, Phil. If you can't do something about him annoying my guys, I'm going to have to. It's going to hit a breaking point soon."

Coulson groaned again, shutting the door and going to sit on the bed. It was more comfortable, anyways. "Why? It sounds to me like there is mutual aggravation going on; some of your group aren't too polite about letting Clint know just what they think of him. I actually think he's held onto his temper pretty damn well, considering."

"Considering what?" Delores took a sip from her mug, eying Phil with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

"One, or more, of them have found out some of his background, have spread it around. I suspect some of your newest group; there were one or two that decided that they didn't like him at first sight, and I _know_ they saw him with some study materials. He's still a kid, and hasn't learned how to properly deflect the taunts being thrown his way. First week here, he actually had to _ask_ me about high school bullies. And he's asked me more since then, mostly about the different environments he's never seen before. His instinct is to fight back, and we're just lucky that he uses words and not his fists. Did you know, all he wanted to do today and yesterday was go to a museum and for a hike, because he'd never been?"

"I didn't." Delores seated herself at Coulson's desk, searching for a clear space to put her mug down.

"Here." Coulson picked up a stack of files, putting them on the bed, before putting his mug down on the floor, tucking it slightly under the bed. Standing up, he rummaged in his wardrobe before pulling a bottle out and showing it to the other agent, eyebrows raised in question.

"Please," she said gratefully, holding out her mug. Coulson splashed some rum into it, before doctoring his own coffee.

"These files," Coulson said, tapping the stack on his bed, "were all generated by Clint. Medical. Dental. Combat. Education. Psych has gotten involved by proxy, and I'm trying like hell to keep Clint away from that group until he's got some more stuff worked out and matured a bit; they'll have him in a padded room faster than you'd believe."

Delores's face was frozen, carefully neutral. "Are we sure that we want this man working for SHIELD, then? If he's that unstable?"

"He's not unstable, not by our definition of the word." Coulson argued. "What he is, is _lost_. Not to mention, _damn_ young. We kick him out and he'll be dead within a month, that's something that everybody agrees on."

"That sounds rather unstable."

"We brought him in as an _assassin_, Delores, there is some natural instability in their personalities. There has to be, to allow them to actually do their job. Toss in the spying aspect, and I'm surprised we don't lose more operatives to psychotic breaks! There are few enough of them as is, and Clint is being asked to be one of the ones that we barely ever have, the _solo_ operative! James Bond!" Coulson stood up and started to pace. "I've had to _completely_ change my attitude towards him, and about him, in the past couple days, and I'm plenty pissed off that it took me this long to realize it, and I've been in the same damn room with him for five, six hours a day for the past five months! Everybody has been seeing him as an adult, because of his age, but think about it. For nearly half his life, he's been roaming around the country with _circuses_. Two years in prison!" He turned back to his bed, pulling out a thick file from Clint's stack, opening it, and flipping through. "He spent six years in an orphanage, and the _one_ person he, by most reports, looked up to, just up and left one day and is now dead. No goodbyes. Brother's Army file said that he had no, zero, living relations, FBI file admitted to the fact that Clint existed, somewhere in this country, but his brother wrote that he 'didn't give a flying fuck about the brat' and I'd love to know what caused _that_ change in attitude. His mentor from his first circus tried to _kill_ him." He held out a small stack of papers, waiting until Delores took it and started leafing through them. "The police report from when he was first arrested, the paramedic's report, and the hospital's report." He pulled out a second stack. "Here's what the judge's decision was, and his reasoning. 'It is the finding of this court that the defendant, one Clinton Francis Barton, was making an attempt to better his life situation which lead to the criminal attack on his person at the time of his crime, and had no proper frame of reference as to determine right from wrong in relation to his previous crimes. This court sentences Mr. Barton to juvenile detention until his 18th birthday, with no possibility of early release. A bench warrant is also released for Jacques Duquesne, AKA The Swordsman, for attempted murder and multiple counts of breaking and entering and theft.' That guy is still in _federal_ prison, and from what I've learned, not having a very good time, for which I'm actually quite happy, considering how bad it must have been for Clint to be this screwed up."

"Oh," Delores had come to the hospital report, which included pictures. She put the papers down, looking green. "I think I could use some more courage." She held out her mug.

Coulson just passed her the bottle. "Not pretty, right? So, tell me, the first time you saw him, what was your first impression?"

"A...punk." She admitted. "He was arguing with the guard at the front desk about the fact that he was told to be here, but didn't have picture ID. He looked dirty, hungry, little too thin, ragged, but I chalked that up to the fact that he was wearing a beat-up jacket about three sizes too big." She sighed. "Although yes, he did look young."

"And all your guys are college graduates, some of them from the top schools in the country." Coulson took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "So you put somebody who is younger than they are, who didn't even finish elementary school and who tested to a _third grade level_, and has _no_ clue about interacting with people on _any_ social level outside of a role that he played in the circus for almost ten years, in with people who spent the last four to eight years being told how good they are..."

"You risk an explosion." Delores nodded. "I'll lean, but my guys can't be the only ones changing."

"I'll talk to him some more too," Coulson agreed. "and yes, I've a suspicion that I'm going to have to have a come-to-God meeting with Clint sometime soon as well. He's breaking records left and right on the range and in the gym, but I've seen him trying to study, and he'll be lucky to pass the test next week. He needs tutors, but the best people for that here are the ones who are constantly putting him down. Not to mention, he's refusing to admit that he's in over his head, trying to teach himself everything, so that's going to have to be addressed, too. If he spends two hours each day actually trying, that's a lot. The rest of the time he doodles and tries to push my buttons."

"Ouch." Delores said. "If he needs to retest, I'll tutor him, and I know a few others that can help who aren't based here and so shouldn't know the overall situation. Their work can be put on hold for a few weeks, if needed. It's not like we need those new communicators tomorrow, for all that Fury is saying how urgent they are."

"So, because you keep on saying that I need help, what are your suggestions?"

Delores flushed, looking down at her hands. "Originally, pass Barton off to somebody else, somebody more experienced, who wouldn't give him as much freedom as you seem to be. Who would keep on him. But now? Somebody to trust. Scuttlebutt says that he's in good with Steve, down on the range, but Steve's been thinking about leaving within the next year, and that'll have to be broken to Barton carefully; I'll pass it along to Steve. You're the best person for the overall job, Phil."

"I know that. What do you think I've been trying to do? The boy had a panic attack in the middle of Central Park yesterday, Delores. Realizing that he's got an actual _address_ to put down on stuff now kept him quiet for an hour, not to mention that I called him on some of his antics around here when he starts panicking."

"Oh."

"Which, incidentally, psych did tell me to watch out for, panic attacks. But, he didn't run afterward, and even dragged me through the Met until they kicked us out."

"Be a friend. He needs a good role-model, maybe even a father-figure." Delores nodded. "_Prove_ to him that you won't leave him and that you can be trusted. If that means treating him like a five-year-old, so be it. Put him in time-out. Take away privileges. Help him grow up, because nobody else here will."

"I'm not a parent, Delores." Coulson pointed out quietly.

"I am. And trust your gut. If you need urgent advice, well, I've got a pager. Be prepared for tantrums, arguments, for Barton to be, well, Barton, especially when he discovers that Steve's leaving. I suspect that if you take your cues from him, everything will fall into place. It's already started, too." Delores pointed out in a dry voice. "You're calling him Clint."

Coulson shrugged. "That was part of the problem yesterday. Everybody here calls him Agent or Barton. Nobody's used his first name in months."

"And my group is so enamored of their titles that even now, they're still calling each other Agent." Delores nodded. "But yes. How did your family work when you were growing up? You can start there, either as a model of what to do, or as a model of what _not_ to do." She stood up, filling her mug with the last of the rum, before walking to the door. "I'll bring you another bottle next week, then?" With a nod, she left the room.

Coulson shook his head, again, before clearing off his bed and going back to watching TV. "Barton, you'll be the death of me yet."


	6. Chapter 6

Tricky Coulson.

* * *

Clint decided that he really, really hated tests, walking out of the room where he'd taken the GED. Coulson was waiting for him, a bottle of soda in one hand, Clint's jacket in the other.

"Here," he said, handing them over. "How'd it go?"

Clint just shook his head, putting on his coat. "I hate tests. I hate bubble sheets. I hate writing essays. I hate calculators that don't work. I hate number two pencils. I hate erasers that don't erase everything fully." He opened the bottle and delayed answering anymore by taking a long drink.

"And I hate whiners." Coulson replied. "But, in the interest of my sanity, I'll let it pass this once. Had an idea for the rest of the day."

It was only then that Clint noticed that Coulson was dressed in casual clothing and sturdy shoes, holding a backpack. "More hiking?" He asked, eagerly. After spending so much time sitting, he just wanted a chance to move.

"_God_, no." Coulson shuddered. "Not after last time. Being lapped by little old ladies is not my idea of a good time. No, I was thinking playing tourist some more. Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, ever been there?"

"Just says that you need to get to the gym more," Clint retorted. "And no, never been there."

"Good. Let's go to Ellis Island first; it's a bit longer and I find it more interesting than being able to climb up inside some big metal lady." Coulson held up one hand, seeing the spark of amusement in Clint's eyes. "_Don't_ go there, Barton. You won't like the consequences."

As the two headed out of the building, Coulson could hear Clint mutter, very faintly, "How'd he know?"

* * *

Clint was one of the first ones off the ferry, making Coulson mutter about a leash, to the amusement of his fellow passengers. "You wouldn't think that he's twenty-one in less than a week, would you," he said to a lady standing next to him, who was holding onto the hands of two small children, watching as Clint dashed from one sign to the next, carefully reading each one. When he got to a larger informational sign, Coulson watched as he produced a small dictionary from one of his jacket's many pockets, looking up words that he didn't know. He sighed, as Clint then pulled out a notepad and pen and started slowly writing something down.

The lady laughed. "He's acting like my two would if I let them, that is true." She watched Clint as well, as he came darting back.

"Hey, what does this mean?" Clint asked, holding out the notepad. Coulson didn't even look at it.

"It means, Clint, that you need to slow down and stop scaring the tourists. What does it say when little kids behave better than you?" Coulson indicated to the lady and her children, the three of whom were watching the interaction between the two men. The older of the two children was giggling. "Don't make me leash you, or worse, make you hold my hand."

Clint shook his head quickly, eyes wide. "Nope. Not happening. Never happening."

"Never say never, Barton. Way you are, who knows what could happen." Coulson glanced over at the lady, "Private international security group. He's still new." Looking back at Clint, "So, show me what you don't understand, and I'll see if I can get the idea of understanding something through context into your head." Seeing Clint open his mouth, he held up a hand. "Context, something coming before and after that help to make a meaning clear, to put it in terms that I know you understand." Glancing back at the lady and her children, Coulson nodded. "Enjoy your visit, ma'am, kids. Hope that you are enjoying New York." He reached out, grabbing the back of Clint's jacket just in time, as the younger man started to move off. "Slow _down_, Barton! We've got five hours, and it isn't like you can't come back!" He ducked as Clint's training took over, and he whirled, one hand out to grab Coulson, the other reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. "Nice response, but remember _your_ situational awareness, too, please. You're _so_ good at teaching it to others. And again, no scaring the tourists. Obviously you need to get out into public more, if you're this high-strung."

Clint ducked his head, looking sheepish. "Sorry. Just happy to be outside and done with that test. How long do I have to wait for the results again?"

"Normally four to six weeks, depending on how much work the test readers have, especially since they instituted the essay portion. However, we were able to pull a few strings. You'll find out next week; they'll call the day after your birthday. Which, if I have anything to say about that, _will_ be calm and low-key."

Clint nodded, in a sudden transformation from excitable teen to sober adult. "Me too. I don't like parties. Don't even feel comfortable out in public all that much, either." He shrugged. "But I like seeing all this stuff, and as long as it doesn't get crazy, I'm good. Actually, all I want to do is see if Steve'll let me borrow the Star Wars trilogy again, spend the night watching that. My bows need some work, too. That was my plan, at least."

"If you want some company," Coulson started to offer.

"Sure." Clint shrugged. "But only if you get some Chinese take-out from that place down the street."

"Deal," Coulson nodded, as they entered the building.

The next week dragged by, and saw Clint spending most of his time working off nerves either in the range or in the gym. His birthday was spent as he'd hoped, with him and Coulson eating take-out while watching movies. Steve had gifted him with his own set of the trilogy, and a gift card to a movie store, and Coulson also handed over a small box. Opening it revealed everything that Clint had been hunting down for his bows but hadn't found yet, as well as a wallet. Clint just grinned as he placed it on the bed next to his bows, before sitting on the floor. He also tried to teach Coulson to juggle, an endeavor that failed miserably. Before Coulson left, he told Clint that he didn't want to see him in his office before 6 PM.

Clint was outside Coulson's office at 5:59, raising his hand to knock, when the door opened. "You were going to knock, I'm surprised." Coulson stood back, beckoning Clint in, closing and locking the door. "So. You didn't pass."

"Oh." Clint slumped down in a chair. "How bad?"

"Well, they had trouble reading your essay, for one – there is a requirement that it be legible. Three people, Clint, it took three people to figure out what you were writing. Knew that going in, because it takes more than five months to be able to improve your handwriting at the speed needed for the test, especially with your study habits. But all across the board, you were either very, very good, or downright shitty. The man from the testing institute I talked to said that they see that a lot, actually; people tend to fixate on something that they find personally interesting or easy, and skip over the rest when studying. It shows in the test results." Coulson sat down behind his desk, folding his hands together and gazing at Clint steadily.

"What does that mean?" Clint was restless, full of nervous energy and the need to run, to hide. He stood up and started to pace.

"That means that this is your official, put it in your file as having happened, come-to-God meeting, because there are rules here, and they can be bent for only so long. They've _been_ bent since it was decided to bring you in, but you're running out of time."

Clint had stopped pacing, and was holding onto the back of his chair, taking deep breaths in an obvious attempt to stay calm. Coulson watched as his knuckles turned white, and hoped that the wood would hold. Clint had been doing a lot of physical training, and it showed. "Okay."

"In other words, I need to put it to you this way, as much as I hate to. But, here it is. You don't get your GED this next time around – you have to wait a month to retest – you are no longer eligible to work here at SHIELD. The circus on Coney Island has been shut down, and anybody who would hire you to do your act will do a background check, discover that you've _got_ a history, and these past few months won't even show up, so you'll have to be pretty damn creative in saying what you were doing, which means your odds of getting a job are slim to none. You can go back to your criminal ways, but in the end, you're just going to end up on a street corner someplace with a sign, begging for a buck, and the homeless rarely do well."

"Is that your position?" Clint had started pacing again, resembling a caged tiger. Coulson watched him, starting to feel a bit nervous.

"It is SHIELD's position, which, for legal reasons, must be mine. But _god_, Clint, you don't know how much this is hurting me." Coulson pointed at the desk in the corner, piled with books and notes, his voice rising. "I've had to sit here for the past _five months_, watching you struggle. I _knew_ you were struggling. But I didn't want to interfere, I _couldn't_ interfere. This was almost as much of a test of your abilities to realize when you are in over your _god-damned head_ and ask for _help_ as you showing up dressed appropriately was! We don't want to lose people in the field because they're too _proud_ to realize that they can't do it on their own! Every night I'd look at your notes, every morning I'd pray that _that_ would be the day that you'd finally ask for some help! This is SHIELD! We've got resources that people only _dream_ of, that _you_ have at your fingertips! I had people lined up to cover the rest of _my_ work so that _I_ could teach _you_ everything in those damned books!" Coulson breathed a sigh of relief as Clint sat back down, head in his hands. "Now, _come on_, Barton, _work_ with me," he pleaded.

"What do you want me to say?"

Coulson slammed his hands down on his desk as he stood up, making Clint jump and shrink back in his chair. "Did you just hear what I was saying?" He yelled. Clint huddled even smaller in response.

"I...need help. Please." Clint looked up, and Coulson could see tears brimming in his eyes. "And you're right. I need this, more than you realize. I can't stay here, then fuck it all, I'll take one last walk through the Met, then swan dive off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Start walking in the mountains until I can't anymore. Something. I don't know."

"It won't come to that," Coulson murmured, moving to lean against the desk in front of Clint, reaching out and ruffling the younger man's hair, before shifting around and giving him a brief hug. "We won't let it come to that. I promise. Now, go get changed and eat. You're legally able to drink, and we both need something. My treat. Don't forget your ID, you look like a damned teenager, especially when you wear that coat of yours. One hour."

"I _like_ that coat." Clint muttered rebelliously as he unlocked the door and left. "I have space for everything, and it can hide a knife _and_ a gun."

Coulson leaned out into the hallway. "And leave the weapons behind, too!" He ducked back into his office. "Bad enough when sober, I halfway don't want to see his reactions drunk." Sitting down, he picked up his phone. "Delores, Phil. That offer still open? Good, thanks. Yeah, I'm here for another 15 minutes or so...Delores?" The woman in question was standing in the doorway. "Hi. Did you have your extension moved to a closer phone or something?"

"I just move quickly when needed." Eyes sparkling, Delores entered and sat down. "So, how bad was it, Phil?"

"Bad enough." Coulson rubbed his eyes. "Did you hear me yelling?"

"You scared Sitwell and Brown, but they need toughening up. They didn't say if they could make out words or not." Shrugging, she continued, "Do you have a schedule worked up?"

"No. I have what he needs to work on written down; I figured I'd leave the rest up to you. My plan for tonight was to go out and get him incredibly drunk, dump him into bed, then pull out the big guns tomorrow. I've already cleared my morning schedule in case of potential messes." He stood up, moving around to a bookcase, pulling down a cardboard box. "Took me a while, but found him these. Boy likes to read a bit, if you can believe that." Reaching into the box, he pulled out a couple Hardy Boys books. "I figure that he spends the next month with a book in hand outside of an hour and a half, maximum, doing something physical, these will come in handy. Also found a good bribe – he had asked about a new bow, one that could be used as a quarterstaff. R+D have already started figuring it out, as well as coming up with some ideas for arrows. They think some Stark Tech will allow for big booms in a small package."

"That's a nice bribe. Let me take those books, and his results, and I'll get everything worked out. I'll drop it all off in his room so it'll be there in the morning."

"Thanks," Coulson said, heading for the door.

* * *

Coulson brought Clint to a small bar not far from Grand Central Station, waving to the person behind the bar. Pointing Clint to a table, he walked over. "Shots, Jim, and please, keep them coming. Some beer wouldn't hurt either."

Jim glanced at Clint. "He have ID?"

"Damn. Yeah. Can you just bring it all over and he'll show you there?"

"For you? Sure."

Coulson went and sat down across from Clint. "ID," he ordered. Clint pulled out his wallet as the bartender walked over with a full tray. Putting the tray down, Jim nodded, taking a look at Clint's license. "Thanks," Coulson called out, passing each of them a shot. "Enjoy."

Clint nodded, making a face at the taste of the alcohol. But, he drank what Coulson gave him, until the younger man started to look slightly dazed and was slumping slightly. "Damn." He muttered, shaking his head. "Damn."

Coulson nodded, feeling only lightly buzzed, thankful that he'd learned a few tricks about staying sober while getting somebody else drunk. "Good place." He finished off a bottle of beer, then leaned towards Clint confidentially and whispered, "Gots something to tell you." He watched in satisfaction as curiosity entered Clint's eyes, and the younger man tried to sit up straight. Deliberately slurring his words slightly, Coulson smiled inwardly in satisfaction. "Clint, you'se real smart. Coul' do lots with us." He shook his head, just a little, sighing sadly. "Wish you was family." Pouring two more shots, he pushed one over to Clint, watching as his eyes started to droop. "Last one," he murmured, mostly to himself. Waving at Jim to call a cab, Coulson watched as Clint obediently downed the alcohol, before slumping down onto the table.

Coulson shook his head as the bartender came over. "Who would have thought he'd be this much of a lightweight, thought we'd be here until last call. Here," he passed over some bills. "This cover it?"

"Sure," Jim watched in bemusement as Coulson stood up, hauling the younger man out to the waiting taxi.


	7. Chapter 7

Don't startle Clint, bad things will happen.

* * *

Clint groaned at the pounding in his head when he woke up the next morning. "Ow," he muttered, sitting up. He realized that he was still in his clothing from last night, coat draped over the chair and boots on the floor. "Not doing that again." He noticed a pile of books on his desk, but ignored it in favor of the glass of water and bottle of aspirin that was sitting there. He took three, paused, took three more, then stumbled to the bathroom, splashing some water on his face. That helped, some, so he decided to take a shower, before hunting Coulson down and killing him, very, very slowly. He knew how to, now, after all.

He stepped out of the shower feeling slightly more charitable towards the other man, but he still hoped that Coulson had just as bad of a hangover as he did. Clint refilled the glass from the sink, then wandered over and looked at the books. On the very top was a note, in unfamiliar handwriting; he set it aside in favor of looking at the stack. The bottom of the pile were more GED study guides, but the rest...he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The books he'd been wanting for the longest time, and some that he didn't recognize. Hardy Boys, Black Stallion, even some picture books that he remembered fondly from the orphanage. One hand, shaking, reached out for the note.

"Clint," he read, "Phil told me what was going on, and asked for my help. Thank him for the books when you next see him. Now, for the rest of the news. I have organized tutors to come in and work with you; our goal is to not only get you to pass the GED, but to obtain scores high enough to allow you entry into any college you desire. Don't put in the effort and/or sneak off, there will be consequences; quite a few of the staff need help with their fighting skills. Today is a free day, although I would recommend that you spend it with your nose in a book; tomorrow I will meet you at 0800 in meeting room 3. Agent D. Smith. PS. Clean your room, it's a pigsty." The last was written in pencil, obviously added after she had put the books in his room.

Clint didn't know what to think. Coulson had gone to somebody else...but he had asked for help. And Agent Smith wasn't half bad, but he wasn't so sure about the others that she had written that she'd gotten to help. His interactions with the scientists hadn't gotten any better; he'd just learned to roll with the punches more after Coulson had asked him to "show a level of maturity that the other guys weren't." Almost without realizing it, he reached out and grabbed the top book from the stack, stretching out in bed. The Little Prince...he hadn't heard of that one, but the cover art looked fun. He fell asleep, reading.

He was almost done reading it when he walked into the mess hall for dinner. Grabbing whatever was closest, he wandered over to an empty table and mechanically ate. He liked the bit about the fox; that whole "you tame it, you keep it" thing made him think of himself and SHIELD, or maybe Coulson. He looked up as Coulson sat down across from him, cup of jello in hand, eating it without a single word or look at Clint.

"I meant every word last night, Clint." Coulson said, putting down the empty cup and spoon, finally looking up. "You get your GED at your retest, which is scheduled for six months after your listed hire date, I'll buy you a new bow. Your recurve is looking its age, and it might even be too light for you now that you've had a few months of real food and a chance to fill out some. Reward for a job well done, that's how _my_ family works. You have any problems, need any other help, you let me know. I do _not_ want a repeat of yesterday afternoon in my office, understand?"

Clint nodded, one hand reaching out to touch the book resting on the table between the two men. "Thanks for the books."

Coulson smiled, then. "You asked, and I had it pointed out to me that just reading is a good experience. I never was a fan, much, but since you seem to like the more...cerebral...relaxation activities, which is a bit of a shock I will admit, it can only help." He glanced at Clint's tray in shock. "You _ate_ the _chicken_?"

"I did what?" Clint made a face. "Ew. In my defense, it's a really good book." A memory struck him. "You weren't nearly as drunk as you were acting last night, were you. That was _cold_, if you didn't get to suffer today like I had to."

Coulson had a small smile on his face. "Doubt, Clint, is always a good thing. Maybe one day I'll tell you my secrets of a night of drinking followed by a good day's work."

"One other thing." Clint needed an answer. "Why did you go to Agent Smith?"

"I asked to help, Phil didn't come to me," the agent in question sat down next to Coulson. "Clint, you don't mind if I call you that, do you?" At Clint's shrug, she continued, "I've got more experience with the stuff that you need to learn and I've done a lot of teaching in my life. I'm also bringing in folks from the Helicarrier; they're looking forward to helping you out."

"Oh." Clint looked down at the table, only to have a hand reach out and grab his chin, forcing his head up.

"All that they know is that we've got a mouthy, punk-ass kid with an _intense_ hatred or fear of learning, we don't know which, who happens to be one of the best things to walk through the door in a while who has a month to learn everything for the GED. They've been a bit bored, to be honest, and see this as a mini-vacation, one that they get paid to be on and will be on solid ground. And a challenge, which they love." Agent Smith shook Clint's chin slightly, before releasing him.

"I don't _hate_ learning; it's just kinda boring and hard and nothing ever seems to stick." Clint corrected. "I just hate school." He stood up, tucking his book into a pocket, before grabbing Coulson's trash and his tray, nodding at the two on the other side of the table. "I'll see you in the morning, Agent Smith." He wandered off.

"Well!"

"I liked that, Delores. He was pretty respectful. Let me put it this way. He was so involved in reading that book? He ate the _chicken_."

"Oh, disgusting. But promising. And I like how he separates learning from school, but we're going to have to make it all fun for him."

Coulson nodded, standing up. "I'm trusting you Delores, I don't want him to fail again."

Clint started to go down to the range, like he normally did after dinner each night, then paused in the hallway, thinking. Heading back to his room instead, he dug around under his bed and found where he had shoved the cassette player and box of GED tapes, then headed for the gym. He could listen while running on the treadmill, no problem, and maybe something would stick better than trying to read it all. In the locker room, he flipped through the tapes, before pulling one out on science. Sticking the headphones on, he headed out into the gym, programming the treadmill for an easy run.

He was about halfway done when he sensed that there were people heading towards him. Looking around, he mentally started cursing. That bunch again. It was too late to avoid them, so Clint started preparing a few comebacks that he knew would work, if his initial deflection didn't, as he turned off the tape and shoved the headphones to rest around his neck.

"So, Barton, heard you got reamed by Coulson yesterday." Jones leaned on the edge of the treadmill. "Heading back to your little hole anytime soon?"

"Busy," Clint grunted, increasing his speed. "Go away." This was probably the number one thing he hated about being here, most of the other people.

Jones reached out and picked up the Walkman. "What's this?" He opened it, glancing at the tape, then started laughing. "Jocks," he grinned. "can't even finish high school."

Clint set the treadmill to stopping, taking a couple deep breaths. As he stepped down, he reached out and grabbed the cassette back from Jones. "Couldn't go at all." Shoving his way through the gathering crowd, he headed for the door. He had his keys and his badge in his pocket, everything else could wait until tomorrow; as much as he wanted to get his book, he didn't want to possibly be cornered in the locker room. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he let his training take over, flipping the person over to the ground, landing with a knee on their back, their arm twisted up and across their shoulders, and Clint's free hand reaching for a knife that luckily wasn't there. "Dammit, Jones, you don't _do_ that!" He released the scientist, if a bit roughly, and stood up, breathing heavily.

"Agents Barton and Jones!" The voice rang out like a whip. "Get over here, the rest of you, clear out!"

Clint followed the sound of the order to a man standing in one corner. He looked familiar, and Clint ran through names and faces to try and make a firm identification. "Yeah, Agent Santos?"

A raised eyebrow was his only response. Clint shrugged. "I remember you from Coney Island."

Santos turned to stare at both men. "Want to tell me just what is going on here? Or even why one of our operatives is getting into it with one of our scientists?"

"Operative?" Jones questioned. "I thought he was security! Everybody said he was security! _He_ says he's security!"

"I _am_ security," Clint shrugged. "Sorry, sir, we just had a bit of a disagreement."

"Didn't look like one," Santos pointed out. "Barton, you're restricted to quarters. Jones, sit there."

"Sir," Clint nodded, turning to leave the gym, only to be followed by Santos.

"He's an idiot, Barton, we all know that." Santos said quietly. "Stay in your room tonight, tomorrow stay with Coulson. Simple as that. I've been looking into this the past few days once reports started working their way up the ladder, I know it's mostly not you, and you're not in trouble with me."

Clint shoved any emotion down, nodding again. "I've been dealing with it, sir, this was the first time it got physical. Agent Coulson told me what is probably going on, and how to deal." He shrugged, looking at his cassette player and tape, both of which were cracked. "Just upset that my stuff was broke. I need it." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his badge and clipped it to his sleeve.

"We'll replace it, if needed." Santos nodded. "But also let Coulson know what happened so he's not blindsided by any of this tomorrow."

"Sir," Clint nodded and left the gym. He kept a firm grip on his instinctual reaction, which was to go down to the range or find someplace to annoy the scientists, and headed straight for his room. He'd see if everything still worked before getting too upset.

When he got back to his room, he picked up his phone, dialing Coulson's office number. "Hey, Coulson? Might be in trouble. Yeah, I'm in my room."

When he heard the knock on the door, he opened it, and before Coulson could say anything, jumped right in. "It wasn't my fault, he started it, I tried to walk away, I'm not done with my book that's still in my gym locker, and _what the hell is wrong_?" Turning, he stalked back to his bed, sitting on the edge.

Coulson shut the door, looking confused. "Tell me what happened, first?"

Clint scowled. "I was in the gym, Jones came over, started his shit as usual. I tried to deal with it as usual, walk away like you told me. He took my Walkman, saw what I was listening too, started laughing, said something about how jocks couldn't even finish high school. I told him I couldn't even go. I was leaving, he grabbed my shoulder. I reacted and put him on the floor, hard. Agent Santos was there and saw everything, restricted me to quarters and told me to call you."

"Ah." Coulson leaned against the door. "The only thing that I can see you getting in trouble for, _barely_, is for putting Jones down like you did, but you were reacting to what you perceived as a threat, which _is_ what you're being trained to do, good job on showing restraint. Not your fault that he sees security here as the same thing as those old men at the museum." He walked over to the desk, looking at the Walkman and tape. "Sure, it's cracked, but it'll still work. Tape should still work, too. If you're worried, stick some duct tape or riggers tape on it."

"Still doesn't say why." Clint glanced out of the corner of his eye at Coulson. "He said that I wasn't in trouble with him, but I still broke the rules I was told about fighting where it wasn't allowed."

Coulson sighed, sitting down in the desk chair. "Real shitty couple of days, huh?" Seeing Clint's nod, he continued. "And believe it or not, you didn't break the rules. Jones did, by starting it. Santos did you a favor, because this gets you out of the way of the witnesses and the gossip for the rest of the night. Around here, restriction to quarters is just a way to give people a chance to cool off, and the folks who matter know that. Now you know it, too."

"Oh." Clint lay down, flinging an arm over his eyes. "He also said to stick close to you tomorrow, what about that?"

"Because you're a punk, Clint, who is showing a surprising amount of maturity right now compared to what you've been like in the past. Your attitude is fast becoming legendary, and he probably wants to avoid any repeats of this evening where you'd end up being the one getting punished."

"Yeah. Oh. Huh."

"The monosyllabic teenager phase has struck, praise the lord. May it fully replace the hyper-five-year-old and surly teenager phases once and for all."

"Now you're just being sarcastic." Clint flipped Coulson off. "Change not, I shall. Punk forever, will I be."

"Alright, Yoda. You cool now? I'll swing by here tomorrow morning and grab you before breakfast and your meeting with Delores."

"She said I need to clean my room."

Coulson looked around. "You do. I'm surprised the housekeeping staff even comes in here anymore. _I'm_ afraid of being exposed to something whenever I come in here. How about this. You have this place cleaned up by tomorrow morning and keep it clean, we'll do take-out once a week."

"Deal." Clint held out his hand in Coulson's direction. Coulson played along and shook it. "See ya."

Coulson headed for the door, then paused. "One question, though. Why do you keep twenty bucks in your shoe?"

"Just in case."

"Ah." With that, Coulson left, closing the door behind him as Clint rolled off the bed to start cleaning up, turning the TV on for some background noise. MTV had another episode of the Real World on, that was pretty enjoyable.


	8. Chapter 8

Not all learning comes from books.

* * *

The next morning found Clint pacing, waiting for Coulson to show up. He was normally long gone by this time; having to wait until 7 AM meant he was was hungry and full of pent-up energy. The knock on the door had him practically flying over to it, wrenching it open. "About time!"

"Well, this is certainly one way to make sure you behave," Coulson said dryly. "Tell you that you have to stay in your room until after 5 AM." He walked in, tossing Clint a backpack and placing the book Clint had left in his locker on the pile on the desk. "Pack up your stuff and lets go. Jones has been transferred, he's leaving today."

He watched as Clint just nodded at the news and shoved study guides, notebooks, pencils, Walkman, cassettes, and headphones into the bag, before hesitating over the stack of fiction books and pulling the one he'd been reading out, adding it to the bag. "Want a bookcase?"

Clint shook his head. "Nah."

Coulson was used to Clint's eating habits, and for once didn't try to hurry and keep up. A lift of his eyebrows had the younger man slouching down in his seat, digging in the bag for the Walkman and a notebook. "It's easier," he mumbled at Coulson's glance. "Listening, that is." Opening the notebook, he very carefully began taking notes on whatever he was listening to. A quick glance showed that it was physics; Clint had showed a strong ability in that particular subject, according to the test, so Coulson wasn't completely surprised that it was Clint's first choice in the morning.

Finishing, Coulson leaned across the table and pulled the headphones off. "Ready?" A nod, and a glance at his watch, gave him an idea. "Good." Standing up, he continued, "Take care of the trays, then take the stairs to the roof and back down. See if you can beat me, and don't forget your bag." With that, Coulson turned and left the room, heading for the elevator.

Clint lost the race, naturally, which was Coulson's goal, but he also arrived out of breath and looking a bit more relaxed. "That wasn't fair."

"Life, Barton, is never fair." Coulson opened the door to the meeting room. "But you have to admit, you're feeling better right now, right?"

Clint shrugged, walking into the room, slouching down into a chair. "Yeah," he admitted, dumping his bag out on the table. "so, how's this going to work?"

Coulson held the door open as Agent Smith walked in. "We're going to work rather hard," she answered. "I've got some ideas, but I suspect that you're going to break all of our assumptions."

"Everybody has all these 'assumptions' about me." Clint held his hands up, making air quotes. "I'm a jock, so I beat up the geeks. I don't know anything. I'm a slacker. Really makes me wonder why I'm still here, why I'm even here in the first place." He shoved himself out of his chair, walking to the end of the room and back.

"Sit down, Barton!" Coulson's barked order made Clint jump in surprise and turn to face the two older agents. "Delores, have fun. If you don't mind, I may come steal him for a bit before dinner." Looking straight at Clint, he admonished "don't forget, Clint. Behave, or else."

"Yessir," Clint said, moving back to his chair. "Sorry sir."

"Very well, then, Clint." Delores sat down as Coulson left the room. "I have a list of things that you need to work on, ranked in order from most important to least. Did Phil ever tell you about the IQ test that you were given?"

"IQ test?" Clint was confused. "He didn't. He asked why I could be so smart and so stupid, but he didn't say anything about IQ tests."

"Ah, pity. Our test showed that you've _got_ the power up here," Delores poked at Clint's head. "It just needs to come out. That's my job, and the three guys I've got coming in tomorrow. So, you've got a lifetime's worth of experience, but in all the things that won't help you out right now."

"Huh?" Clint turned, staring at the woman. "Agent Smith, are you saying I'm smart?"

"Could be." Delores nodded. "Call me Delores, we're going to be working together very closely over the next month. Now, pack up your bag and come with me."

Clint complied, feeling like his world had just been turned upside down and not knowing how to react. "Where are we going?"

"You like museums, don't you? So I thought maybe we could visit a couple, learn some history." Delores kept talking, ushering Clint to the elevator. "So much better than trying to look at a study guide, don't you think?"

"Yes ma'am." Clint didn't feel quite right about calling the older woman by her first name, but it also felt wrong to call her "Agent" out in public. He took a deep breath. "Do you think you can help me do this?"

"Clinton Francis Barton," Delores scolded, a sparkle in her eyes giving lie to the tone of her voice, "I _know_ I can help you do this. Now, I want you to pay attention, I'll be asking you questions about what we've seen today later on."

The next month was one that would stand out in Clint's memory as unique. He spent less time in the building than he did out of it, and the GED study guides ended up being shoved under his bed, as his tutors subtly directed his attention towards learning in a manner that he enjoyed. Clint responded to the positive feedback and encouragement by pushing himself even harder, ending up in Coulson's office most nights with a list of questions.

So when Clint left the testing room for the second time, to see Coulson in almost the same position as before, it was with a feeling of optimism instead of defeat. "Better." He admitted as he walked up. "Lots better. Thanks," he said, accepting the soda that was held out to him.

"I sure hope so, because we've had something come up that can use you." Coulson glanced around. "Let's get back. You ship out in two weeks if you pass."

"'kay. Can we stop by an ATM and a music store on the way back?"

"Sure, we can take our time."

There was an undertone to Coulson's voice that had Clint shaking his head as he stopped at the first bank they passed. "Nah, just those two stops is all. It sounds important."

Coulson nodded, as he watched Clint dart across traffic, following when the light changed. Entering the store, he waited by the entrance as Clint wandered around, grabbing cassette tapes and CDs. It took less time than he had expected for Clint to join him, holding a large bag, with a slightly apologetic look on his face. "Don't be sorry, it's your money." He asked questions about what Clint had bought and talked music on the way back, and when they were finally in the elevator, answered the question he knew Clint had.

"We're sending a group in to take down a base in South America. This is a chance to get your feet wet; it's a small base, with probably about a dozen guys there. I know that we haven't had a chance to get you into sniper school yet, but oh well, this team needs a sharpshooter for this, they know that you'll probably be the one coming since you're the closest thing we've got that they haven't scared off." The elevator stopped, and Coulson led the way down to his office. "Biggest problem is that you won't have a chance to meet with or work with the majority of the group before getting thrown into it all, and you're just not dialed in on using a sniper rifle yet."

"I can use a bow." Clint interrupted. "I like it the best, anyway."

"True," Coulson acknowledged, opening his office door. "Paul, here he is."

A man stood up as the two entered the office, holding out his hand to Clint. "Paul Greeves."

"Clint Barton," Clint replied, shaking it, then placing his bag down on the floor by the door. "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir."

"No worries," the larger man drawled in an accent that was vaguely familiar to Clint. "Just spent some time downstairs on the range, now want to spend some time chatting and seeing you with that bow of yours. And please don't call me sir. Makes me feel old."

"Barton calls everybody sir. There are times that I think he should have gone into the military." Coulson joined the conversation. "He's not guaranteed, Paul, but lets get downstairs and you can give him a trial run. Barton, you good to go?"

"Yeah. Can I meet you down there?" Clint was already heading for the door, and was gone before either man could respond.

Coulson laughed. "He's like that, don't be upset. He'll probably take the stairs, work out some nerves. The morning was spent testing."

Paul just looked at the other man. "Why would I be upset? I have to ride herd on at four men who are like him. He looks vaguely familiar. What's his story?"

"I don't know how much I can tell you," Coulson temporized, "but if you listen to the rumors around here, he's a punk-ass, uneducated kid who likes to scare the scientists and do trick shots with his bow. In reality, he's a punk-ass, barely educated, scared as _hell_ kid who is working very hard on growing up who likes to scare the scientists and do trick shots with whatever weapon he can get his hands on. He's not guaranteed, Paul, because he's on thin ice. If he doesn't pass his GED, he's out, as of next week."

"Ah." Paul looked thoughtful. "Still doesn't explain why he seems familiar."

"Ever been to the circus?"

"Not for years."

"Where are you from, then?"

"Iowa...and before you ask, you probably wouldn't have heard of it."

"Try me."

"Place called Wave-" Paul was cut off.

"Waverly. Great. Just great." Phil turned to the other man. "That's Clint's hometown. He was taken out of it when he was five, though, and that's all I'm going to say. I _strongly_ suggest that you don't bring it up unless he does; when I say he's a punk-ass kid, I really mean _kid_. He's managed to mature a whole hell of a lot, but there are still times that you just want to lock him in his room for a week and a half."

Paul snapped his fingers. "Barton! That was the town drunk, him and his wife. Didn't realize they had a son."

"Yeah, well, don't let Clint know that you know. They both died about 15, 16 years ago now."

As the elevator doors opened, the two men glanced around. Not seeing Clint, Paul nodded. "Of course."

Clint walked out of the armory, holding his compound bow. "Getting old, Coulson, if I beat you this time." He looked at Paul. "You're from Iowa, aren't you. Your voice seemed kinda familiar. Where abouts?"

"Place called Waverly." Paul kept his gaze focused on Clint.

"Huh." Clint shrugged. "Cool. That makes two of us, although I moved away when I was little."

Paul nodded. "So, going to show me just what you can do with that thing, instead of running your mouth?"

Paul was impressed. Paul was very impressed when Clint started pulling some of his trick shots. Paul told Clint that he wished that there were more guys like him around, and that he'd figure out where to best put him, did Clint speak any Spanish or Portuguese? No? Shame, but the rest of the team would start him on that, most likely, they loved to teach new guys different languages, but mostly the curse words and how _not_ to talk to women, he'd be around for the next week, all the better to teach Clint some of the things he needed to know about working in the field and to make sure that he was in shape to go do this op.


	9. Chapter 9

Deep thoughts. Clint opens up a little.

* * *

Unlike the last time Clint had to wait on his GED results, the week fairly flew by. He ignored Paul's attempts to draw him out and talk more about his past, which the other man attempted to take in stride, but soaked up everything that he was learning like a sponge. One afternoon, as the two were fighting in the gym, Coulson and Agent Smith walked in. "Barton! Get your lazy ass over here!"

Clint felt his heart sink. He didn't pass. Nodding to Paul, he walked over to Coulson, shoulders slumping, only to suddenly be pulled into a big hug by Agent Smith. "Congratulations, Clint," Coulson said, as Clint's eyes went wide at the woman's actions and he tensed. "Not only did you pass, but they could even read your damn handwriting this time, which was a miracle in and of itself. Go shower and put on something decent, leave the coat, we're all going out to celebrate. One hour."

"I'm always decent! And why not my coat?" Only Agent Smith _still_ hugging him kept Clint upright. The woman was surprisingly strong for somebody who looked as old as she did, Clint was finding, and she was starting to try and pick him up and swing him around. "Um, Agent Smith?"

"You have a suit, yeah? Wear it. Lord knows the rest of your stuff won't get you through the door of where we're going." With that, Coulson turned and left the gym.

"Oh, _good job_, Clint!" Agent Smith finally released him, with a kiss on his cheek. "And what did I say about calling me Agent Smith?"

"Don't?" Clint found that his knees couldn't hold him, and he sat down on the floor in shock. "Wow. Thank you. Thank you. Why did Coulson say to wear a suit? I haven't worn that thing since I got it, I don't know how to act anyplace where I'd have to wear a suit." He was babbling, he realized, and shut his mouth, forcing himself back to his feet.

"Dinner, Clint, and then Phil got tickets to something, I don't know what, but it'll be fun! We're all going, Phil and me and Sue and Sheila and Joe, and Paul's invited along too, and _congratulations_ Clint!"

Paul clapped Clint on the shoulder. "Good job, Barton. Delores, I'd love to come, as long as Phil isn't going to try and drag us to the opera, can't stand that sort of thing. I'll go see what I can scrounge up."

The tickets were to a Broadway show called Cats; Clint first objected, thinking that it'd be a bunch of animals running around a stage, but as the opening notes of the musical played, he sat up a bit straighter, finally pulling one foot up on the seat so that he could rest his arms and chin on his knee in fascination. Seeing his actions, Delores nudged Coulson, before leaning over to mutter, "he _is_ a bundle of contradictions, isn't he."

Coulson nodded, whispering back, "chose this stuff because _I_ like it, plus the training aspect."

"Will everything be training with you?" Delores whispered, settling back in her seat, suppressing a snort at the "probably" she heard. She poked Clint, getting an offended look as he jumped. "Feet on the floor."

At intermission, the group gathered in a corner. Clint worked his way so that the rest of them were between him and the rest of the audience, leaning back against the wall.

"How long have you been in New York, Barton?" Paul asked, leaning against the wall next to him. "Kinda surprised that you haven't been to Broadway before."

"Um," Clint thought. "Only about six months before I started at SHIELD. So a year now, I guess. Never had the time to do anything though."

"Ah," Paul nodded. "That sucks. Wondering, though. Why'd you leave Iowa and end up here?"

Clint shook his head, pushing off the wall, walking off towards the bar and pulling out his wallet.

"He doesn't trust folks with much, does he." Paul mused as the rest of the group turned to look at him. "Bigger question I've got in my mind right now is can I trust him with the backs of my crew?"

Coulson nodded. "He'll do the job, Paul. I suspect that he'll do it damn well. I only know as much about him as I do because I've been assigned as his handler, I'm his trainer, and I've been given so much paperwork on him, I'm surprised there's still a tree standing out west. Can't wait until we're completely on computers. Give him his privacy, though."

"I ended up working in the circus, where else would a guy who could shoot a bow the way I do end up." Clint's voice was unexpected. "Whenever this sort of stuff was going on, I was working, rest of the time I was practicing or helping out around Coney Island. Candy?" He held out a bag as the lights flashed for the second act.

As the group dispersed back at SHIELD, Clint followed Coulson. "So, now what?"

Coulson glanced at his watch. "Well, for now, I'm planning on going to sleep. I want to meet with you tomorrow, say, 8 AM?"

Clint nodded, turning to find his own bed.

The next morning, Clint was on the range, when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he saw Coulson. "I'm not late, am I?"

"No. You are predictable, but that's okay for now." Coulson held out a case. "Here."

Setting his bow down, Clint reached for the case, carefully opening it. Inside was a bow, a recurve, and his fingers started to itch, wanting to pick it up. It looked...deadly, was the only way he could put it.

"My family, my rules, Barton. Remember?" Clint had forgotten that Coulson was there. "You got your GED, so here's your reward, as promised." He affected disinterest. "Although if you don't want it..."

"No!" Clint shook his head, reaching out to pick up the bow. It was light, and he spotted a bowstring in the case. He pulled that out, too. "It's...thanks. It's awesome."

"Well?" Coulson snapped the case shut. "Are you even going to try it out?"

Barely breathing, Clint strung the bow, noticing that it took a bit more work than he was used to, then turned back to the firing line. Picking up an arrow, he fired. "It's awesome." He repeated.

"It's multi-purpose, too." Coulson had moved, and was now standing next to Clint. "I had R and D make it up, they're also playing with arrows, since what good is a SHIELD archer if he can't have a few different options in the field? I've yet to meet an operative who doesn't like a good explosion every now and then. But you had asked about a bow that could double as a quarterstaff, and you're holding it. That was a good idea you had, one that nobody had thought of, and R and D is asking that if you do have any more, let them know ASAP. Draw is a bit higher than what you're used to, so it might take some practice. However. Spend the morning down here, then we're heading out to the Helicarrier to meet up with the rest of the group we're going to South America with."

"We?" Clint asked, firing the bow again. The strain on his muscles was an old friend, and a welcome one. He had missed it. He'd not be able to keep tension on this bow for long, but that would come in time.

"Yes, we." Coulson made a motion with his hand, waving it over Clint's head. "There. You've been blessed as a full operative agent of SHIELD, please don't go any more nuts than you already are and kill us all in our sleep. You get a handler, which is yours truly, and you'll double as security with occasional trips with teams because we _need_ security more than we need assassins and spies, to be honest, and security isn't just sitting around all day, plus now that you're off probation, I'll probably start traveling more, doing more of my full job."

"Oh," Clint wasn't paying full attention. "Cool."

"Having now lost you for the day, if you're not up to lunch by eleven, I'll come and drag you up. We leave at one, Clint."

"Bye."

At eleven, Coulson picked up his phone, dialing down to the range. "Is Barton still down there? Good, thanks." A noise from the door had him looking up. "I thought that I'd have to come find you."

Clint shrugged, walking in with a tray. "What is it with the mess hall and serving chicken? It almost came down to a fight over the last plate of spaghetti. I would've won, it was just Sitwell and a few other scientists and I've seen them trying to spar in the gym. It's a laugh. Here, hope you enjoy it." He held out the tray, waiting until Coulson cleared a space for it on his desk.

"Because they're always hoping that some idiot will walk in and eat it, plus, chicken is a cheap protein, cheaper than serving beef or pork every day. This is really the worst base for food, nobody has figured why. I also suspect it's because this is the current training base, and the cooks just don't care."

"I was reading, and didn't realize what I was taking. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it." Clint sat down, digging into a salad. "Thanks for the bow, by the way. I don't remember if I said that earlier."

"You did, and you're welcome. Do you need another bribe to behave on this mission?"

"Dunno. Hey, you said that you'd start traveling more. What does that mean?"

"Behave, and I'll let you choose where you get the sniper training that you need. And by traveling, it means that I'm more than just your trainer, handler, or whatever you see me as. To be honest, this is the longest that I've actually stayed in one place outside the Helicarrier in a while; I tend to float around to wherever needs something done. I probably own more clothing than some Hollywood starlets, and can live for a week out of a briefcase. You're my first operative that I've worked with this closely for this long and have actually been lead trainer on. If you feel that you cannot work with me once you've gotten some field experience, I will need to know as soon as possible so we can find you somebody else."

"Huh. So you're just kinda an agent in general, then?"

"Yes, whatever that means to you." Coulson leaned back in his chair. "Any of this bugging you?"

Clint shrugged. "Depends."

"Clint, if I have to drag this out of you..." Coulson left the threat hanging.

"If you come back or not." Clint was very carefully not looking at Coulson, staring at a corner of the room. "If you tell me what's going on. If you're going to be honest with me." He reached into a pocket, pulling out his copy of The Little Prince. It looked well-read, with a few pieces of paper sticking out of it. He tossed it onto the desk. "You ever read this?"

"Not in a while, no."

"Read it. I just want it back."

Coulson pushed the book back across the desk. "I don't want to take your copy. I'll find one for myself. Going anywhere with this?"

"Trust. I'm feeling weird here, really on edge about something. Not quite sure what." Clint was still staring at the ceiling, one knee bouncing.

"Clint...just a sec. I want to see if I can figure out where you're going." Coulson picked up the book, flipping through it to where Clint had stuck the first piece of paper, then the second. "I...see." He put the book back down. "Clint, look at me."

Reluctantly, Clint looked at the other man.

Coulson sighed. "Do you trust me?" A nod. "Is this the first time you've felt like this?" Shrug. "Barton..."

"My parents left me. Barney left me. I don't want to talk about Jacques. I _still_ have nightmares. And scars that the doctors told me would never go away from what he did." Clint shoved himself out of his chair and started pacing, hugging himself, his head down. "I _don't_ like the pattern. And I _like_ it here. Most of the people I've met can go fuck themselves, sure, but if I'm told to protect, I'll protect. I'll kill when I'm told to kill, play James fucking Bond. Not my fault that they're all asses and couldn't live a single day of my life. But Jones found out stuff, I don't know how, and he used it to make my life a living hell until _Santos_ got involved. Santos, who looked like he's Fury's personal assistant when I saw the two of them together. I don't _know_ how I can trust some folks here _not_ to dig up stuff that I don't want them to know. And I'm scared that you're going to vanish, too."

Coulson felt like cheering, but was able to keep his face still. "Ah. Guess I should apologize for not being more transparent about how I was leaning on Delores and a couple others about all that was happening. She drank most of a bottle of rum one night, talking about that stuff."

"Steve told me he was leaving just now; his wife's parents are pretty sick. They're heading off to take care of them in a couple days, plus, he said he was on his way out already because he's hitting retirement age. I can deal with that, because he taught me a lot, sure, let me have some fun on the range, but...but he's not _you_. He wouldn't've done everything that you've done for me."

"Okay." Coulson held his breath, waiting for Clint to figure out his mind.

"So, it doesn't bug me." Clint flopped back down in his chair. "But you...I'm trusting you, more than I've trusted anybody in _years_, and I don't know how to think of you, and that's bugging me. You act like a boss one minute, and a _parent_ the next, and then you flip it all around _again_ and act like a friend, which I don't think I've ever really had. I want to _be_ you sometimes because you're always so cool and unflappable about anything that gets handed your way, and others I want to throw a tantrum because you told me no, I couldn't have any dessert because I was spying on the tech guys putting in the computer network in the labs."

"Tell me what you want me to be, and I'll try my hardest to provide." Coulson decided to take a risk. "There have been discussions about you, you know. All of your trainers have had to report to me on at least a weekly basis. I probably know more about you than you do, on some levels."

"Yeah?" A guarded tone.

"Yeah. You're a government employee now, rules are background checks of at least ten years. Because of what you're being asked to do, we went all the way back to your birth, just to make sure you had the right kind of instability we needed."

"So I'm nuts?" Clint rolled his eyes. "Could've told you that."

"We're _all_ a little bit crazy, it's part of being human, let alone working here. You just happen to have the right kind of nuts that our research has shown can handle a bit of cold-blooded killing and not eat your gun after a year. Your circus background suggests a nice ability to act, which is key for going undercover. After this mission, you're going to be introduced to the psych department, which should have happened earlier, but I held them off." Before Clint could open his mouth to ask why, Coulson held up one hand and elaborated. "When you first got here, you weren't _nearly_ as mature as you are now, and had a lot of issues. Still have those issues, but you've managed to hit a level where they shouldn't interfere with your daily functioning. Had Psych gotten involved, you wouldn't be here anymore, or pretty well drugged up and useless. I had a few...firm discussions with them about that, and had to report to them, but they gave me a few tips for emergencies."

"That day in the park." Clint remembered.

"That day in the park. A few other times. Delores forced on me a rather large amount of advice, too. Do you think it worked? I certainly do. The punk-ass kid who I met that first morning, of even a month ago, wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation right now."

"I think it's just the change." Clint glanced down at his hands, changing the subject slightly.

"Possibly." Coulson leaned back in his chair, tenting his hands in front of his face. "Probably. And you also just got hit with the fact that now that you're off probation, you're being handed with a lot more responsibility than you've ever had, and you're also realizing that you're twenty-one, which isn't very old in comparison to some of the people around this post especially. You're being expected to haul off and do something that you've never done before. You're probably thinking about it a lot more than you should – there will be six of you, all reports say that there are _maybe_ ten, twelve people in this base, mostly scientists. And, as you very well know, scientists use words one hell of a lot more than guns. You probably won't use a single arrow or bullet outside of practice, unless you're attacked by a llama. Please don't get attacked by a llama, I'll make you do the paperwork explaining just _why_ you were attacked by a llama, which is rather long and involved and very painful. And that reminds me." He picked up an envelope. "Passport. You're now able to legally travel between countries as yourself. Don't lose it, any replacements come out of your paycheck, unless it's expired. If you're going in anyplace undercover, then we've got more." He picked up another envelope. "Some local cash, because of that tendency of yours to keep some in your boot."

Clint nodded, taking both envelopes. He didn't open either, just tucking them into a pocket, which surprised Coulson slightly. "Thanks. What should I take with me?"

"Let's go get that stuff ready, then." Coulson stood up, picking up Clint's book. "We've still got an hour and a half, and it's also a good time to get your space set up on the Helicarrier since we're going there anyways. Need your bow and guns, lets go get those first."

"Cool. What about you?"

Coulson just leaned over and picked up his briefcase. "I'm already packed."


	10. Chapter 10

More deep thoughts. Clint's starting to grow up.

* * *

Clint was fascinated with the Quinjet, but sat down across from Coulson after about ten minutes of staring out the front, over the pilots' shoulders. "What is family?"

"It can be a lot of things. Why do you ask?" Coulson glanced up from the file he was reading.

"You've called me family twice now, and I'm trying to figure out why, and what it means." Clint pulled out his bow, and was very carefully focusing his gaze on it, with a quick sideways glance to where Paul was laying on the floor, headphones on, snoring softly.

"Ah." Coulson replied, with everything suddenly becoming clear. "Family and trust, that's what's bugging you, because you've never had much of either."

"Yeah."

Coulson glanced at his watch. "You have the strange knack – ability – to ask the deep questions at the strangest of times, you know that?"

"That's not answering my question, Coulson." Clint looked up, piercing Coulson with a glance, and Coulson could see how the young man could develop into one of the finest things to come to SHIELD in a long time. Now if that could just come out and _stay_ out, Coulson could die happy. "And the pilots said that we've at least thirty minutes until we land. I asked."

"You're right. Family. What is family. Some people say it's genetic, parents and grandparents and siblings and all that, which is true." Coulson snapped the file shut, putting it back in his briefcase. "In case you're worried, there are a lot of theories out there as to what role a genetic family has in a person's personality, and nobody is really sure what is right. Other people say that family is what you make it, especially once you're out on your own. Everybody needs family, no matter what they say, they need that place where they go, they'll take them in, no matter what." He paused. "Criminal acts excluded, usually."

Clint snorted softly, a smile lurking around his lips. "You're asking me to perform criminal acts, by all the laws that I know of. Hope there's an exception there."

Nodding, Coulson considered his options. In for a penny and all that. He stood up, moving to sit next to Clint, folding his arms across his chest. "This is SHIELD. Of course there's an exception. There is an exception for every law out there; we're working on gravity right now. Next question?"

"Why are you saying that I'm family?"

"What, you don't want a family?" Coulson shrugged. "If it bugs you..."

"No. I've thought about it. And I know it should bug me, but it doesn't." Clint stretched his legs out, leaning back in his seat. "And that doesn't bother me, either. But I still want to know why. I actually kinda like it."

"You're a good person, for all that you've a shady background. Hard to call you a kid now, although you certainly still show flashes of an incredible _lack_ of maturity at times, and that probably won't ever go away. You needed an aspect of stability in your life, still need it, and so I offered and outright shoved my way into being that stability these past few months. You probably didn't realize it was happening, but what does it say about the fact that we're having this conversation?"

"I trust you? But I knew that."

"You trust me. I haven't done anything that has given you reason to doubt placing trust in me. And I trust you. And not only that, well, I have a question for you. If I told you to take out Paul, right now, because he was a threat and a traitor to SHIELD, what would you do?"

Clint glanced at Paul. "Shoot him in the head, follow up with a knife, then turn and ask you just why you made me do that. And probably apologize to the pilots for shooting somebody in their plane."

"That's unconditional trust that you're putting in me, Clint, as well as an amazing amount of consideration for property that isn't yours. Why knife?"

"Just in case. And I like knives better than guns." Clint reached behind him, pulling one that Coulson hadn't seen before out. "Surprised that you didn't figure that out. Sometimes you just need a knife."

"And what if, say, one of the pilots told you to take out Paul?"

Clint looked thoughtful. "Right now, tie him up, take away any weapons he has, bring him in with me. If he was awake, probably shoot him in the shoulder or knee, tie him up, bring him in. If it came down to a fight, knife him someplace tender but non-essential, tie him up, bring him in."

"Why not just kill him?"

"Because," realization dawned over Clint. "Because I trust them as SHIELD employees, but I don't trust them to know everything that's going on, or even be able to give me any information beyond what I can check myself." He paused, glancing at the cockpit. "Well, could, if I knew what any of that stuff up there meant. But you seem to know everything, and you haven't given me any reason to think that you'd trick me, and you know all that stuff about my past, and you haven't used it against me. If I asked, you'd probably help me work it all out, get it all straightened out in my head."

Coulson nodded. "There's a difference between trust and unconditional trust. I'll try not to break your trust in me, although I expect the same from you, that you don't give me reason to not trust you. And I hope that you'll ask for that help, eventually. I do need you to talk to me, to ask questions and answer mine, because if you shut down, then I don't know how I can help you. In a couple years, it probably won't be a problem, but for now, I need to know everything."

"Everything?" Clint glanced over, amusement clear on his face. "Hey, Coulson, I'm taking a shower. Eating lunch. Going to buy some music. Scaring tourists."

"Not everything." Coulson shook his head in exasperation. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Am I allowed to keep on playing around? It's kinda fun."

"Clint, you wouldn't be you if you didn't. Just stay out of areas where you're not cleared to be; don't do anything permanent, and minor humiliation is okay, anything more is not. Also be prepared to have people respond in kind, because it's only fair. Now, go wake up Paul, we've got real things to discuss."

Clint pulled a pen out of his pocket, tossing it at the man on the floor, hitting him on the nose. Paul sat up, eyes wide, before taking a look around. "Dammit, Barton!"

Clint stood up and retrieved his pen. "Coulson said it was time to wake up. Be glad it was just a pen, and a capped one at that. Could've been a knife. In your eye." He waved his knife in front of Paul's face in demonstration.

"So, here's the plan." Coulson interrupted what looked to be preparing to turn into an argument. "We're landing shortly. Paul, I want you to get your men together. Clint, we're going to get you your permanent quarters here, a full tour will have to wait. Put the knife away. We'll meet in the mess hall and go over the mission, then it's up to you lot to figure out just how you'll work it. If you think you can get everything together quickly and we're cleared, then we can leave even earlier than next week, if not, then oh well, original timetable will stand. Clear?"

The two other men nodded as the jet landed on the deck of the Helicarrier with a bump.

Clint thought the Helicarrier was probably the coolest thing he'd seen in a while, looking around him as Coulson led him through a maze of corridors. "Don't expect to know your way around completely for a bit. However, here is the bridge." He escorted Clint into a room that was bustling with activity. In the middle stood a figure that was familiar to Clint.

"Welcome back, Agent Coulson. About time your problem child got his act together." Fury turned around, walking towards the two men. "However it's planned, your mission has a go, if you can move up the timetable some it'd be appreciated. Agent Barton, set one toe out of line and I'll toss you overboard myself." He crossed his arms, regarding Clint.

Clint grinned, back on familiar ground. "Like to see you try, sir." He nodded. "This is...very cool."

Fury grinned in response. "This is more than 'cool,' Agent Barton. This is supposed to knock your socks off, have you picking your jaw up off the floor amazing."

"Tie your shoes, wouldn't have to worry about losing your socks."

"And that's enough from you, Barton." Coulson interrupted. "Thank you sir, I'll let the right people know we're cleared to get out of here ASAP. Let's go, Barton, you still need to be assigned a room and we've got a meeting to get to. Director." He nodded, grabbing Clint's shoulder and physically turning the younger man around.

It was a matter of minutes for Clint to be assigned a room and for Coulson to show him where it was. The two then headed for the mess hall, where Clint grabbed a drink before they walked over to the table where Paul was sitting with four other men.

"Guys, Clint Barton, our shooter this op. He's not joining us permanently, just on an as-needed deal."

"Dammit, Paul, are we ever going to get a shooter?" One man looked angry. "Sorry, Barton. We've kinda been going through a bunch of them. Call me Bill."

"If you lot didn't keep scaring them off with stories of what happened to the _last_ shooter, you'd be able to keep one around." Coulson sat down at the table, waving to Clint to take a seat as well. "Phil Coulson."

"What are you?" A man who hadn't introduced himself was staring at Coulson. "Radar."

"Handler. Backup." Coulson shrugged. "I'm also the one with the information." He handed out files to everybody at the table. "If you can get something worked out quickly, we've been cleared to leave at whatever time you want to."

Clint opened his, taking a look at a map of a complex. He kept quiet as the rest of the group discussed options, listening and absorbing.

"Barton, I figure, you'd be best placed here; there's only one entrance, although once you get inside it's a bit of a maze." Paul was pointing at a spot outside a door. "If you're needed inside, we can call you."

Clint stared at the map again, thinking that something felt off about it. "How big are the windows? Are these even windows?"

"Windows?" Bill looked at Clint in confusion. "What about them?"

"Good way in, yeah, but they're also a good way out of the building." Clint pointed out two spots. "See, here and here? All the hallways lead to these two spots. Even getting to the _door_ requires going through a lot."

"Bill, we're getting schooled by the new guy." Paul shook his head. "Good eyes, Barton. Can we rig something up at one and the door, go in the other? Rabbit? Max? Radar?"

"Sure. Could even take down that whole section of building. The reports," the small man, Rabbit, shuffled through his file, "the reports say that's mainly storage. Biggest risk is them storing weapons there and accidentally setting something off."

"I'd be okay with that risk. So go in...here, explosives here and here and I'd also say here. Take down scientists, take out guards, anybody actively fighting. There's some research in there that we need to go after, but that can wait until we're all done with the people. Just try not to hit too many computers." Paul nodded. "Barton, where do you think you'd like to be placed?"

"Up a tree, if I'm staying outside." Clint was firm on that point. "I can see more that way. If I'm going inside with you, wherever. I just need room to shoot."

Bill leaned forward in curiosity. "What do you shoot?"

"I've got a nice bow." Clint shrugged carelessly.

"Paul..."

"Chill. It's cool."

"No, it's not." Rabbit. "They're giving us somebody who uses a fucking _bow_ and _arrows_ as our shooter? What is this, a fucking carnival? Fuck that, I'm not going."

"Like to see you do better than me." Clint was calm, feeling in control, hoping that his gut instinct that this was just a test was in fact correct. If it was, he was getting damned tired of always being tested. "In fact, let's go to the range, have a competition. I'll even let you use my stuff. Unless you're _scared_."

"I ain't scared of _shit_. You're on."

"Hey!" Paul cut the two of them off. "I can tell we're done here. Rabbit, Barton, I'm going to take you two up on that, _right now_, because I don't want this to come up again. Ever. Barton, go get your bow."

Clint picked up his bow case in response. "Done." He stood up, rolling his shoulders, looking at Coulson and shrugged, waiting for the others. "Sorry."

Coulson picked up the files and put them away in his briefcase, shaking his head. "No you're not, I can tell that much. Let's get this little contest out of the way, then maybe you lot can actually think about working together."

The range on the Helicarrier was larger than the one in Manhattan, and Clint headed to a lane. He opened the case, pulling out the recurve that Coulson had given him, stringing it, then pulling on his gloves and bracer, glancing around casually. They were at the far end of the range, and nobody else was paying them any attention. A quiver was placed on the table in front of him, and he pulled out an arrow.

"Don't worry, they haven't finished the exploding ones yet." Coulson's voice was dry.

Clint responded by picking up his bow, firing the arrow downrange while staring at Rabbit. Not taking his eyes away from the other man, he pulled out a second, firing that one as well. "Your turn." He held out his bow.

All anger drained out of him as Rabbit took it and immediately handed it back. "Nah, I was funning with you. You'll do, Barton." A low whistle. "Damn, you're good. Were you even looking at the target?"

"It wasn't moving." Clint didn't take his eyes off the other man. "Why should I?"

Rabbit started to shift nervously under Clint's cold gaze. "Paul, make him stop!"

"Clint." Coulson. "Gentlemen, if you're finished, we do have a mission to plan."

"Fuck that, I want to see him shoot more!" Bill had watched the entire thing, mouth wide open, as the others nodded. "We can do the rest of the planning here, can't we? I mean, we were pretty much done, yeah?"

Clint was already putting his things away, shaking his head. "Nah. I've done my time for the day already, and we need to get this stuff done. I'll let you know when you can come watch tomorrow, I usually do my shooting in the morning. Plus, if I do too much at once, I'll get hurt. It's a brand new bow." He glanced at the rest of the small group. "Besides. I'm hungry and it's time for dinner, want to see if the food here is as good as Coulson was saying it was."

"Barton, you're _always_ hungry." Coulson sighed, shaking his head, as the group left the range and started to walk back to the mess hall.

Clint handed his bow case to Rabbit, clasping his hands in front of his chest and looking angelic. "But, Dad, I'm a growing boy!" He leaned against the wall, laughing, as Coulson stood there, looking dumbfounded and the others grinned.

"He'll do." "Perfect!" "Can we keep him? Please?" came from a chorus of voices.

A glint entered Coulson's eyes. "Yeah, in all the wrong places." Challenge recognized, challenge accepted.

"Hrmph. At least I'm not getting beaten by little old ladies."

"No, just two-year-olds." Coulson started walking again. "I thought you were hungry?"

"I have an excuse." Clint took his bow case back and followed Coulson. "But you? We were climbing hills. That's just lazy. Little old ladies!" He turned his head, looking back at the men following them. "It wasn't like it was a _big_ hill, either. Just a couple miles uphill to a lake, totally _awesome_, and there are these ladies, carrying picnic baskets. They start out after we do, and are on their way back down by the time that he's approaching the lake."

"At least I didn't eat the chicken."

"I was reading. And it couldn't've been that bad, else I'd've remembered."

"Barton, hotdogs." Point, set, and match. Clint shut up then.

That night, Clint was sprawled out on his bed, listening to music and reading, when his door opened. "Don't you knock?" He asked, not looking up.

"When I've been knocking for a while, no." Coulson sat down in the chair. "So, report."

Clint hit the stop button on his Walkman, pulling off his headphones. "Sorry. Couldn't tell between knocking and some of the other bangs that are going on right now."

Coulson nodded. "Not to worry. Again, report."

"About? Do I think I can do this? Yeah. They're having me watch a door while they go in and do all the big stuff. Can I work with them? Sure. I just don't want to have to go through all this testing shit every time. It's getting kinda old."

"Glad to see that you realized that it was a test, and knew to play along. And it'll die down, now that you've had a chance to lay it out with this bunch. You really got in good; they're one of the top teams that we've got right now, and they're also pretty popular in SHIELD as people. They just like to push folks, which is _why_ they don't have a permanent dedicated shooter on the team. They're accepting of you for your abilities, know not to ask about the past, and that'll spread. Paul has already put in a request that you be assigned to his team, didn't like hearing me say no. He was pretty impressed by you, even though you haven't been in the field yet, and that was before you met the rest of his team. Although we're not letting that little bit, that this is your first mission, out until after it's all over."

Clint shrugged. "Paul's cool, but I wouldn't want to work with him all the time. Too much history for him to ignore."

"You can also start trying out sniper rifles, too; there's the capability here and the guys at the range are able to teach you a bit. Still won't compare to actual sniper school, but it'll be a good start. And, Clint, 'dad?'"

Clint looked up from his book at that. "Felt right."

"It...felt right."

"Yeah, like folks needed a laugh, and I'm liking playing those little jokes. You're my handler, Coulson, for all that you act like my dad sometimes. Think you'd be a better one than my real dad, not that I remember him much...but whatever. It's that whole Little Prince thing. SHIELD got me in the door, but it was your work, _you_, that made – let – me stay." Clint sat up, and swung around to face Coulson, leaning against the wall. "I thought I was happily hiding out as 'Hawkeye, the World's Greatest Archer,' but looking back, I wasn't happy, I was barely surviving. Now, I've got all this." He gestured around him. "I've got a future. I probably won't have a single physical place to call home, but one base is just like the next, yeah? I can call SHIELD home, and everybody here family. Everybody needs a few assholes in theirs, I've just got a few hundred. Thousand? Whatever."

"This is surprisingly profound, coming from you, Clint." Coulson leaned back in the chair, enjoying hearing what the other man was saying.

"Just as long as you stay honest with me, and promise to _come back _when you go off, it'll all be good. I've had lots of time to think, after all, over the past five weeks. That was all that I was being allowed to do, think. And the amount of writing...did they tell you what they had me doing?"

"No, and you weren't very talkative about it, either."

"Essays. Lots and lots of essays. All written by hand, one each day, and then I had to _rewrite_ them if there were any problems, and they managed to find a lot of problems. I think I didn't get more than half an hour in at the range each day just to practice. There were some nights that I didn't even get a chance to sleep more than an hour or two, because I had to make sure I was keeping up with that schedule that Agent Smith had set and that the others had modified. Drank a lot of coffee."

"Yeah? And what did you learn from that?"

"Learning can be fun." Clint shrugged. "I still don't think I can do the whole classroom thing, but I might even be willing to try it. If you say I should."

"Let's get through this mission first, give you a bit more time before forcing you into college. Flying lessons, first, if you're able to pilot a Quinjet that would be good."

"Cool. Now go away, I want to go to sleep." Clint leaned over placing his Walkman on his desk, then bending down and unlacing his boots. "If we're leaving in three days, I need to get as much time in with that new bow as possible. So go away, please?"


	11. Chapter 11

Llamas. Clint continues to annoy people.

* * *

Clint wasn't surprised that there was an audience the next morning at the range. Because he didn't feel like playing for a crowd first thing in the morning, Clint did the most boring exercises he could think of, taking his time warming up. Not able to put it off any longer, he started with his easy tricks – different angles for his bow, different angles to the target, different firing positions, that sort of thing. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard a group coming up behind him, seeing Paul leading the rest of the men he'd be working with. "Hey," he said, firing another arrow.

"Hey," Paul nodded. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah," Clint shook his head, turning around to face the group, noticing Coulson standing in the background. "You?"

"Lunch, then we were going over the mission again, few other things." Paul ordered, waiting as Clint nodded, packing up his equipment.

The following day was the same, and the night before they were supposed to leave the knock on the door that Clint had been halfway expecting came. "It's open!"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Barton." Coulson demanded as he walked in.

"All the world's a stage, yet those you see here are _anything_ but actors, here to _drrrraw_ you in, de_light_ your senses, and make you forget _your_ world for you shall be brought into _ours_." Clint said theatrically, not looking away from the TV. "Or something like that, it's been a while since I heard that particular opener. These guys don't need _me_, they just need somebody who can do the job, play along with their jokes, and then leave them to do whatever they need to do. Acting like they expect me to act is easy, and less chance of getting hurt." He finally glanced over at Coulson. "Besides, it's good training, right?"

Coulson just stood there, before turning around and opening the door. "That it is, Clint." He paused, then turned back around and pointed a finger at the archer. "Just don't pull that with me. Clear?"

"Crystal."

* * *

The back of the Quinjet was silent as it took off from the Helicarrier. "Three hours, give or take," one of the pilots called back. "We'll let you know when we're about thirty minutes out."

Clint watched as the rest of the group all seemed to fall asleep. He sat there, fingers nervously running over his bow, quiver at his feet, wondering if he'd become so used to this sort of thing that one day, he'd be the one falling asleep. A file was dropped into his lap, making him jump slightly.

"Take a look," Coulson instructed quietly. "This is some background information on a group called HYDRA; they're the ones who are running this little science experiment that we're going to go and shut down. HYDRA, and all the little groups that seem to spin off of them, are really SHIELD's biggest group of enemies and are why SHIELD was founded in the first place, after Captain America revealed how dangerous they truly were back during World War Two." He, too, crossed his arms across his chest and appeared to fall asleep as well.

Clint spent the rest of the flight reading, until one of the pilots called back "thirty minutes!" and everybody started moving. Paul and Coulson went to talk with the pilots, while the other four men went over their gear. Radar beckoned Clint over, passing him an earpiece and microphone. "Communications check."

The Quinjet landed, and Clint followed the rest of the group into the forest. Half a mile out, they paused. Paul pointed to Rabbit and Radar, who vanished into the trees. When the building was in sight, Clint started looking for good vantage points, choosing one and scrambling up into the trees.

It wasn't until he reached a good branch and started scanning the building that he realized that something didn't look right. "Problem." he murmured over the radio. "I'm seeing about ten guys with guns, all outside. Maybe more."

"Shit," Paul breathed into the radio. "Barton, how many do you think you can take out?"

Clint thought for a moment, watching the men walk around. "Five, if I'm lucky. Three for sure." He reached into his quiver for an arrow. "Say when."

"Wait one. Report, the rest of you."

"Draw 'em off, we can get explosives in place. They're around back here." Clint couldn't see Radar, but he could see Rabbit crouching in the brush, rifle in hand.

"Same here," Bill whispered.

"Alright Barton, It may get hot for you, be ready to move. Go."

Clint took a deep breath, shoving down the panic that he was about to _kill_ people, and glanced over the pattern of the men again. Choosing one, he aimed and released the arrow, quickly grabbing a second, then a third, as he fell into a rhythm. Draw, aim, fire. He started with the men closest to the brush, aiming for their heads, hoping that they'd think that there were some natives out there. Somehow, it worked, and he was able to put down six of them before shots started being fired and the rest were killed by the others.

"Rabbit's clear." "Radar's clear." "Bill's clear."

"Alright. Barton, keep doing your thing. Rest of you, on my mark. Mark!"

Clint was prepared for the explosions, closing his eyes and holding tighter to his branch as they went off. He then listened to the radio as the five men entered the building. It took less time than he expected, but it still felt like an eternity, before Paul's voice came back over the radio. "Building is clear, all hostiles down. Coulson come in. Barton, come in with Coulson." He waited until the Quinjet was landing before sliding out of the tree.

Coulson hurried down the ramp, heading for where Paul was waiting. Clint swung in behind him, glancing around. "Report."

"You need to see this." Paul led the way inside, to a room that hadn't been on the map, stepping over bodies on the way. Clint had an idea that it would be bad, considering that the others were standing in the hall, looking pale, and avoided approaching the door. Coulson looked through the window on the door and closed his eyes. "Do you have the computers?"

"Yeah. They managed to get all the papers in _there_, though."

"Where are the scientists?"

"Next room. We got four of them alive."

"Alright. Grab the scientists, the computers, and then_ burn it_." Clint hadn't heard that tone of voice from Coulson before.

"Rabbit, Barton, scientists. Radar, Bill, start on the computers. Max, go get the gas. Give me your grenades." Paul snapped out the orders. "Coulson, go back to the jet, tell them that we're leaving in 20. I'll be right there to grab the computers too."

Clint started to follow Rabbit and Bill, only to be stopped by Coulson's voice. "Barton. Come here." Coulson was speaking in a low, firm voice. "_This_ is why we do what we do. _This_ is what we want you to fight to prevent from ever happening. _This_ is why we ask you to kill." He pointed at the door.

Nervously, Clint glanced through the window, and immediately wished he hadn't. He didn't have words to describe what he was seeing, just that it was something that he never wanted to see again in his life, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. "Llamas, huh?" Then, swallowing heavily, he hurried to complete his assigned task, hearing a couple grenades going off behind him.

The flight back was quiet, with the four HYDRA scientists tied up, gagged, and blindfolded, then tied into seats, each SHIELD member lost in his own thoughts. As the Quinjet landed and security guards escorted the scientists off, Paul held the rest of them back. "Go change, then we're going to debrief. I don't want to drag it out any longer than needed. 45 minutes." Their group split up then, each man heading towards his quarters.

Coulson followed Clint. "I'm going to stick with you, if that's okay?" Clint glanced over, and nodded.

As soon as the door closed behind the two men, Clint dropped his bow and quiver on the bed, and started pulling off his clothing, heading straight for the shower, mindless of the other man in the room. Coulson just sat down in the desk chair, staring at the wall. Clint closed himself in the shower, letting the water run as he leaned against the side of the stall, letting the shakes that he'd been fighting off finally come. When he felt that he could face people again, he quickly finished, wrapping a towel around his waist before heading back into the other room. Coulson didn't move, so when Clint was finished getting dressed, he went and lightly touched the other man on the shoulder. "Coulson?"

"Barton." Coulson jumped, turning to look at Clint. "Sorry. Ready?"

"Yeah." Clint tipped his head to one side. "You okay?"

Coulson stood up, straightening his jacket. "I have to keep reminding myself to never think that I've seen the limits of human depravity, and that one day I will be able to retire, secure in the knowledge that I had a role in putting an end to it all." He looked at Clint. "You?"

Clint shrugged. "Ask me again tomorrow. Right now, though, I just want to get the rest of this done with, have something to eat, then watch TV until I pass out. Hiding in my room tomorrow watching cartoons and MTV sounds good, too."

"The resiliency of youth." Coulson noted, then didn't say another word until the debriefing.

The debriefing was short, and Clint was able to mostly listen. When asked about his decisions, he threw out that he wanted to pull them away from where he could see the rest of the team, or knew they were, and his idea about native attackers. When it was pointed out that there _were_ no natives around there, he just shrugged. "Worked, didn't it?" That got some laughs; if they were slightly hysterical, nobody said anything.

Coulson accompanied him to the mess hall, where the sight of the dinner options made Clint start to feel green. Grabbing the first salad he could see, he bolted it down, escaping back to his room.

That night, Clint woke suddenly and barely made it to the toilet in time. Splashing cold water on his face, he tried to get the sight of bloody, decimated bodies out of his mind, and the empty looks on the faces of the other..._things_...in that room. Scrubbing his face with a towel, he sat down in his bed, turning on the TV. It took a few hours, but he finally fell asleep again.

The next morning, he met Coulson in the mess hall. "You look...rested." Coulson said by way of greeting. "How many nightmares did you have?"

"One," Clint said, slowly starting to eat. "Just couldn't fall asleep."

"What was the nightmare about?" Coulson took a sip of coffee. He wouldn't admit it in public, but he was feeling about the same way that Clint looked – he just had more practice at hiding it.

"That..._room_." Clint shuddered. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to even think about zombies. Ever again."

"What about the room?" Coulson took a chance, and pressed. "If you don't want to talk about it..." he left Clint an out.

"No," Clint shook his head, breathing deeply. "I think...it may help. It was the faces. And the bodies. Then they broke through the door and started chasing us and that was about when I woke up and puked my guts out."

"Nothing about the men outside?" Coulson wondered when he'd stop learning things about the archer; it was almost refreshing to hear something that was practically a _normal_ nightmare for any given person who watched too many zombie movies. Being surprised was a near-daily occurrence these days, and Coulson wasn't quite sure if he liked it or not.

"Not after seeing what they were protecting. Maybe if they'd just been doing stuff in a lab, or with technology, but seeing what was going on there, I only regret that I didn't get them all myself."

"Well, don't take any outrageous risks in the future, especially when you're working with a group." Coulson warned. "But it's nice to hear that, as disturbing as it may seem."

"Huzzah," Clint mimed waving a flag, raising one finger in the air and waving it back and forth, yawning. "Barton has proven, yet again, that he's completely nuts and also that he can be a cold-blooded killer."

"Barton! How's our favorite eagle-eye shooter this morning!" Bill looked, to Clint's opinion, disgustingly awake as the man slapped Clint's shoulder and sat down.

"You are _too_ fucking awake and happy right now. Share." Clint held out his hand, as he theatrically dropped his head onto the table. "And it's not eagle-eye. It's _Hawkeye_."

"Hawkeye. Huh. Suits you. You do remind me of those hawks that just sit there and wait on telephone poles by the side of the road, kinda. They're mouthy little things, just like you." Bill nodded. "And my secret? I've been all night, and have probably had about three gallons of coffee, following a quite nice bender." He leaned closer to Clint, speaking in a loud whisper, "I may still be drunk. Not sure."

"Whereas the rest of us are heading off to psych in about an hour, should the rest of them even emerge from their rooms at all today." Paul groaned, dropping into his own seat next to Coulson. "Barton, Coulson, you're certainly welcome to join us. Have to say, though, damn fine job on your first op."

"That...was your first...huh?" Bill glanced between Clint and Coulson in confusion.

"Not mine, his." Coulson pointed at Clint. "What if I told you that he's been a SHIELD employee for barely six months? And I thought you knew. Oh well."

"I want to keep him even more, now." Bill pronounced firmly. "Barton, I'm going to tie you up and keep you under my bed. Don't worry, I'll change the litter box regularly."

"Like to see you try." Clint retorted. "Can't even see you being able to keep a goldfish." He took a second look at the other man, yawning. "Besides, I can take you." He dropped his head back on the table, cradled in his arms.

"He awake?" Paul leaned over. "Coulson, Psych?"

"Maybe. Me, no. But if he's not there, don't wait." Coulson leaned over the table. "Hey, Clint. Barton!" When he didn't get a response, he shook his head, standing and moving around the table.

"Nah, don't worry, I got him." Bill stood up, moving to pick up the sleeping Clint, only to be stopped by Coulson's raised hand.

"He's trained to be on a pretty thin trigger, for now. Surprised he even fell asleep out here." Coulson stood to one side, reaching out and shaking Clint's shoulder. "Barton!" He jumped back as Clint woke up and automatically reached out to grab at Coulson, falling off his seat in the process.

"Ow." Clint glared. "Do you _mind_? I was dreaming of the twins!"

"Might be better to sleep in a real bed, Barton. Don't want to scare the tourists." Coulson held out his hand, helping Clint stand up, then physically turning him around and pushing him towards the door. "Gentlemen." He nodded, directing Clint out of the room.

"Twins? Damn." Bill shook his head. "But if he's trained to respond like that..."

"Then he's not just a shooter." Paul nodded, gulping his coffee. "You're right. I had asked to have him assigned to our team just a couple days after I met him, was shot down before I could even finish my sentence. He's not _just_ ops, he's an _operative_, in every sense of the word." Paul finished his coffee, and stood up. "It halfway makes you wonder if we're even seeing the real Clint Barton, or just a front. Go ahead and try to be friends, Bill, but don't expect that he'll be completely open with you. The only person I think he is truly himself with is Phil and one of the training agents in Manhattan, and maybe not even her. Be right back, need a refill."

Bill leaned on his elbows, head in his hands, staring at the table. He was still in that position when Paul returned. "He's just a kid, Paul. He still looks it. And they're asking him to go off and be an assassin?"

"Yes." Coulson dropped into the seat he'd been in before, reclaiming his coffee. "But you've gotten the wrong conclusions. Incidentally, that little display he just gave the two of you will get better in time, as he starts to subconsciously label places as safe. It just takes a while for some, wouldn't've happened in Manhattan." He sipped at his coffee, then reached out and picked up Paul's, swapping mugs. "SHIELD doesn't have very many operatives like he will be; there have been probably ten, fifteen over the past fifty years, simply because they're not used much. He'll probably be more security and moonlighting on teams than going at it alone. Don't be offended, either, he's pretty scared of people hurting him, likes to stay pretty closed off."

"I wouldn't!" Bill objected. "He's the first shooter since Jonas that I'd want to have on the team. The rest all agree, and that was before we even left!"

"That's very nice." Coulson gazed steadily across the table. "And I'm sure that Clint appreciates the thought as well. Want to be his friend? It'll have to be on his terms, so don't push him, don't expect him to reciprocate." He stood up, draining the mug of coffee. "And on that note, I'm heading back to bed. Paul, don't expect Clint at the psych session."

"As long as he makes it there within the next 24 hours, and gets his report done in 36, I won't have a problem. Same for you on the report, Bill, but you're going to psych with the rest of us. Changed my mind. Go get the others."

* * *

Clint woke up slowly, taking his time to stretch before climbing out of bed. Scratching the back of his neck, he rummaged in his wardrobe for clothing, before deciding that he wanted lunch. Dinner, he amended, looking at his watch. Opening his door, he had to step over a body lying in front of his door. Frowning slightly, Clint took a look at who it was, before kicking at Bill's feet. "Dude. That's creepy, you know? People'll talk." He ignored Bill's scrambling to his feet, continuing his trek to the mess hall.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Bill had caught up with Clint, and matched pace. "We just thought you were a random shooter who had done this all the time!"

"Would it have made a difference?" Clint risked a glance at the other man. "First time, seasoned veteran, whatever. It wasn't anything big." He shook his head. "Especially after seeing what was going on."

"Not that," Bill stopped, staring at Clint. "Why you're here. You're not a regular operative."

"I'm here as security and to be a shooter as needed." Clint's face could have been rock, for all the emotion he showed. "Nothing more."

"Paul said you weren't regular ops, and your reactions this morning were...surreal."

"Paul needs to shut the hell up." Clint scowled. "And you'd react, too, if you were woken up from a _very_ nice dream by anybody other than who the dream was about." He paused. "Or a supermodel, that'd be a good alternative."

"Twins. Think I'm jealous." Bill nodded as they entered the mess hall. Gathering food, the two sat down at a table. "How'd you know twins?"

Clint eyed Bill, thinking about how much to share. "I worked in a circus for a couple years. There was this one act, twins, that did the tightrope." He grinned, remembering. "Super-flexible, too. They were always fun to watch, especially when they were talked into doing their contortionist act with their boyfriends."

Bill looked like he couldn't decide if he was jealous or sympathetic, which made Clint laugh. "They weren't single?" He slumped over, poking at his dinner. "Damn. There goes that idea that you'd introduce me."

"Nah. It was them and the weightlifters. The guys'd break anybody in half if they made moves. Look, no problem, touch, well, you'd better have a damn good reason like the end of the world. Besides, that circus is closed now, so who knows where they ended up." Clint stabbed at his food. "I'm going to the gym, wanna come?"

"Sure. Now I wanna spar with you, just because I'm curious." Bill nodded. "And hey. What did you do in the circus?"

"What do you think? Archery, of course."

Clint had just pinned Bill to the mat for the third time in a row, when he heard his name being called. Looking up, he saw Coulson. "Yeah?"

"Done making Bill feel old? You've got someplace to be."

"Can I shower first?"

"Since I'm feeling particularly generous at this point in time, I will even allow you to wear something other than work-out clothing and give you a full thirty minutes. Not that you're going anyplace special."

Coulson led Clint to Medical, and once inside, to a room marked Psych. Seeing it, Clint dug in his heels. "No way. I don't need psych. I'm not crazy. You said that you were keeping them away!"

"I also said that you'd go see them after your first mission, and it's the rules, Clint. You don't have to answer their questions if you don't want to, but I would suggest that you at least _try_. Talk about the mission, that's it. Understand?"

Clint scowled. "I. Don't. Want. To."

"Tough." Coulson knocked, then opened the door. "How about this. You don't go in there, I'll lock you in your room for the weekend and take away your TV, music, and books." He gave Clint a shove in the back, making the younger man stumble forwards. "Don't do any damage to people or property, and you might even get a cookie." He leaned through the door. "Doctor."

Clint heard the door shut behind him, but didn't move. "He _said_."

"He also said that it's the rules, Agent Barton." A young man stood up from behind a desk. "So, my name is Doctor Beeks, nice to meet you. Have a seat." He pointed at a chair. "These sorts of things are just as important as regular medical and dental visits, and are part of SHIELD requirements for anybody who goes out in the field." He sat down, picking up a file folder. "So, let's start off with the mission you just returned from. It was ugly, I've heard. What was your take?"

Clint slowly moved towards the chair, eyes darting around the room, and sat down. "I climbed a tree. I shot some men. The rest of the group shot more. We brought back some scientists. The place was burned down. That's it."

"Oh?" Clint wondered how the doctor could infuse so many questions into just the one syllable.

"Yeah." Clint sat back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I...see." The doctor raised one eyebrow, writing notes. "Tell me, you ever have nightmares?"

Clint didn't answer, just stared at the doctor.

"Agent Barton, this will be much easier if you talk to me."

"Agent Coulson said that I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to. And I don't want to."

The doctor sat back and stared at Clint. "And now I see why Agent Coulson said many, many times that I wasn't allowed to see you until after your first mission." He shook his head, then leaned forward, tapping his pen against the desk. "So, Agent Barton, let me tell you how this works. Between me and Medical, we can prevent you from doing anything but sitting around on your butt, watching TV all day. I can even work with Medical to get you some drugs that will make you very, very happy or a drooling vegetable, either way, you wouldn't be leaving your bed. You are not cleared from any mission until you are cleared by me. For me to clear you, you must talk to me and answer my questions."

"Only about the mission?" Clint asked, eyes darting around the room. "Nothing else?"

"Depends. I'll try to stay just on the mission, but I may need to ask other questions to help me understand."

"Fine. Yeah, I had a nightmare. Got chased by zombies in that one, nice change from the usual. Couldn't fall asleep at first, but that may have been because I was watching TV, then couldn't get back to sleep after a bunch of zombies tried to eat my brains. Fell asleep sitting in the mess hall, woke up, had dinner, was schooling Bill in the gym when Coulson showed up and dragged me here."

"'That one?' You have more than one? And 'the usual' suggests that you only have one other?"

Clint snorted. "Who doesn't have one that likes to stick around?"

"What is the other one about?" The doctor appeared unconcerned.

"Oh, you know, stuff. And I don't talk about it. Ever."

"You know, Agent Barton, sometimes talking things out helps."

"Hey!" Clint snapped. "You said, _Coulson_ said, that this would be about the mission, not about fucking nightmares. I'm not talking about it, because it's in the past and won't happen again. You want to keep this on the mission?"

"Calm down, please. So you only had the one nightmare last night, nothing today? How about problems eating?"

"Wasn't too keen on the dinner options last night, bit too much tomato for my tastes, so I had a salad. Lovely breakfast this morning. I think, wasn't too awake for it. Helicarrier food is a hell of a lot better than the stuff that they offer in Manhattan, so I tried the chicken tonight. It was delicious. I even took an extra dessert."

The doctor sighed, looking at Clint. "Agent Barton, you've been here for six months, and you're acting like you've been here for six years. Do you have anybody to talk to here?"

"Coulson. I trust him." The "I don't trust you" was left hanging.

"Good. So here's the deal, Agent Barton. You talk to Agent Coulson, who may or may not talk to me if he feels that he's in over his head, and after missions you come in here and talk to me about the mission and only the mission. I will make a note to only ask about the mission, and I hope that maybe one day you will be willing to open up more to me, because I am a psychiatrist, and Agent Coulson is not, and I have the training to help people deal with mental traumas whereas he has the training to help _create_ those mental traumas. In addition, if I feel like you're pulling something or just blowing smoke, I may or may not tell Agent Coulson, who will then be able to deal with you. Do we have a deal?"

"Sure." Clint shrugged. "And what the hell. Call me Clint."

"Clint. Thank you. So, Clint, how was it shooting those men?"

Clint suffered through the rest of the session, jumping up and bolting for the door when he heard a knock. "Thank you good bye doc!" He said, slamming it shut behind him. He stopped, staring at Coulson. "I hate you."

"That's nice. You didn't kill him, did you?"

"Didn't even put my feet on the furniture. Do I get my cookie?"

Coulson just looked at Clint, before opening the door. "Doctor, he behave himself?" Hearing the response, he nodded and shut the door. "Tomorrow. You have to write your report first. You can even use a computer, and I'll get you some examples."

Clint decided that he didn't like the mission reports, either, not after Coulson had sent it back three times with notes, corrections, and questions. The fourth attempt brought Coulson in person. "Barton, did you even look at the examples that I gave you?"

"Yeah." Clint grabbed at the paper, re-reading what he had written. "And that's all that I did. What else do you want? It's kinda hard for me to describe just exactly what I do. I see target, I shoot target. All those questions that you're asking, about distance and wind I don't even think about."

Coulson frowned slightly. "I see. I'll take this one, then, and see what the higher-ups say. You'll want to try and start thinking of that stuff, though, because people can get particular about the specifics."


	12. Chapter 12

Angst, deep thinking. Blame RL.

* * *

Coulson tracked Clint down the next day, finding him sitting on the edge of the flight deck, legs dangling over the side. "Not planning on going for a swim, are you?"

"Nah." Clint shook his head. "Just wanted to get away from everybody inside for a bit." He waved behind him vaguely. "They were getting way too clingy for my tastes." He glanced over at Coulson. "Can I yell at Paul?"

"Why?" Coulson sat down, careful to stay back from the edge. "And can you move back a bit?"

"Sure." Clint scooted back, pulling his legs up onto the deck, but kept staring into the distance. "And Paul told Bill why I'm really here, and a couple other guys either overheard or were told, and now I'm getting weird looks in the halls and I _don't like it_. I know that I was told to not put on an act or pull anything too crazy, but seriously, I feel like I'm about to go postal if I just roll with it."

"I see. I'm sorry, though, but not much can be done. It would've come out eventually what you do, and people would've had the same reactions. You were already becoming pretty well known just because you use a bow. However, it'll die down eventually, probably sooner rather than later, especially once something else pops up to draw their attention. And no, you may not yell at Paul, Bill, or anybody else because you're getting some funny looks."

"Oh." Clint shifted uncomfortably. "Is this spot kinda private?"

"Unless one of the deck crew comes over, yes. Why?"

"Wanna talk. Had another nightmare last night, and Doctor Beeks said that I could talk to you instead of him."

"Was it about that mission?"

"No." Clint shook his head. "Jacques. And this time instead of waking up in the hospital handcuffed to a bed with a cop flirting with the nurse down the hall, I wake up _dead_." He sounded upset. "And then he goes and kills that kid and her parents and lots of other people. Then Barney shows up, and it all gets confusing after that."

"I see." Coulson really didn't know what else to say. Dream analysis was something he'd never thought he'd have to deal with, much less nightmares. There were times that he cursed his promotion, and this situation fit firmly into that category.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why did they all leave? Was it something I did?" Clint sounded like he was three, Coulson thought. "They didn't even say goodbye." This last was bitter.

All that Coulson wanted to do was physically drag Clint over to psych, but he took a deep breath and thought for a second, hoping that what he was about to say wouldn't suggest that he was feeling lost. "I'm quite positive that it wasn't you, as nobody here has given you any suggestion that they're about to leave you in the most painful manner possible. So, I want you to stop for a minute and think. Not about everybody as an entire group, but one at a time. Start with your parents."

"My parents." Clint lay flat on the deck, staring at the sky. "Drunks. Well, Dad was, Mom just was kinda not all there, never quite sure if she drank as much as Dad did. Surprised that Paul didn't make that connection and ask for confirmation. And you drive drunk, you're gonna get hurt, or get somebody else hurt. I guess I should be happy that I wasn't in the car with them?"

"He did. I told him to drop it. If you had been in the car, would you be here today?"

"I don't know. All I know is that Barney and I were being shoved into the back of a cop car and taken to an orphanage, being told that our parents were dead. Is there an accident report that I can see?"

"If you want. I do have a copy, someplace. So, your brother."

"God, Barney. I want to dig him up, wherever they buried him, and _kill_ him. Fucker left in the middle of the night, didn't say goodbye. Do you know why?"

"No." Coulson shifted, trying to get comfortable. "It's always possible to draw theories, but nobody has any way to speak to the dead. He may have been cremated, incidentally, not quite sure."

"Huh. Didn't think about that. All that the letter I got said our regrets, your brother died, if you'd like his possessions please contact us at this address or phone number. Didn't bother, asshole left, why should I take time out of my life to think about him?"

"And yet, you're thinking about him now."

Clint shook his head. "Whatever. Jacques. He's the easiest for me to figure out. He always had an anger problem. I told him no, in the middle of a job, no less, and he snapped." One hand reached up, rubbing at his chest. "I find it funny that I like knives so much, when that's what _he_ used."

"So, now that you're starting to think, do you really think it was all because of you?"

"Yes." The sulky three-year-old was back.

"Barton..." Coulson sighed. "I don't know _how_ to get through to you, to say that it wasn't you. You were standing up for what you thought was right, or you were scared of taking a step to a place that you wouldn't get out of. You were _five_. Your brother...possibly because he realized that the path he was starting down would lead to places that he didn't want to go, maybe he got scared, maybe he was jealous of you, because you were getting a big name as an act, he wasn't. And you can't blame yourself because of the emotions of somebody else."

"What, the great Agent Phil Coulson, lost?" Clint sounded faintly sarcastic, which Coulson preferred to how he had been sounding earlier.

"I'm not a shrink. _Yes_, I'm lost. Yes, I'm trying to understand and help you figure this out, because you asked."

"Whatever," Clint scoffed. "I don't even know why I wanted to talk it out." He rolled over, starting to push himself up. "Going back inside."

"Clint, sit down." Coulson ordered. "You're looking for an easy answer, and there isn't one. That's just part of life, that things are rarely fast, easy, or glaringly obvious. You have to keep on asking questions, and questioning your answers. Asking for help when you need it, offering your help when you can. Putting up with the stares of folks here who haven't seen anybody like you before, because they're used to groups like the teams going out and doing stuff. Don't make me force you to watch the Labyrinth; it's a classic 80's flick that you probably wouldn't like. Not a lot in the way of action, but lots of a teenage girl whining how life isn't fair."

"Ass," was the reply as Clint flopped back down to the deck. "And you still owe me that cookie."

"I do. And maybe one day you'll give me an apology or a thank you for pushing me into situations like this."

"Call it good training for you, too." Clint was back to sounding normal, now. "And what is next on my to-do list, since you obviously have that all worked out? You've talked about sniper school, languages, flying, and who knows what else."

"Next is me going off for a few days to go put out some fires that came about from a minor disaster, personnel reshuffling, and general idiocy, and you staying here and relaxing, maybe doing a bit more training."

"Oh. You'll come back, right?"

"This is where I keep most of my stuff, Clint, of course I'll be back. But like I've told you, I do need to do things other than hold your hand all the time, and you need to realize that you can do things on your own here, as well. You've also been scheduled to start some basic flying lessons, as well as learning some new languages. Spanish, French, German, Russian, you're going to need to know at least a little bit of them all, enough to pass as a tourist."

"Okay." Clint appeared unconcerned, shrugging. "So, can I have that cookie now?"

"Yes, you can have that cookie now. Especially if you get away from the edge of the ship."

There weren't any cookies in the mess hall, so Coulson just handed Clint a cup of pudding, watching as the younger man wandered off in the general direction of the range, using his finger as a spoon. Coulson turned, heading straight for his office; he wanted to write up some notes about this latest interaction so that he could at least try to figure out how to deal with it in the future, as well as calling psych for help. His hand hesitated over the phone, until finally, with a shake of his head, he decided to wait on calling, since he wasn't sure if he wanted to risk breaking the trust that Clint had so carefully decided to place in him until he got permission. Maybe while he was gone he'd be able to find some books or something.

* * *

Clint had decided that he liked using the range as a chance to think and relax; the repetitive motion of shooting arrows seemed to put him in the right state of mind. He still felt upset and on edge after that nightmare and actually talking about it with Coulson, and figured that a few hours of practice would make him tired enough to actually sleep the entire night.

"Barton," Clint turned, seeing Paul standing there. "Come with me."

Curious, Clint returned his bow and arrows to the armory, following Paul through the halls of the Helicarrier. Paul kept on leading him higher and higher, until they were in a small room with windows looking out over the flight deck. It was a nice view, Clint thought, watching as a jet took off.

"Good job on that op," Paul leaned against the window, not looking at Clint. "Most rookies would have had problems with taking out those guys without a direct shoot order or two. You did us all proud out there."

"Thanks," Clint muttered, keeping a watch on the other man out of the corner of his eye.

"I know that you're going to be asked to come work with my team again in the future; you showed that you can do a job, know when to speak up, and know when to shut up. They all like you, and don't be surprised if Bill follows you around for a bit longer. He's got it in his head that he wants to be friends. I can cut it off, if you want."

Clint shrugged. "Sure, if you feel like it. It's a little weird."

"Knew your family, too." Now Paul was getting into territory that Clint wished he wasn't, and he started to shift away from the window, towards the door. "Stay here, Barton. Sure, your father was a no-good drunk and your mother little better, but your grandparents would've been damned proud of you. On your father's side your grandmother was a teacher and your grandfather was a farmer, they both respected people who took an opportunity and ran with it. Sure, they probably wouldn't've expected that their only grandson would end up working for a shadow government organization as an operative after two years in the circus, but nobody expects that of their kids. Sure hope that mine don't follow in my footsteps, would love to see them become doctors or teachers, not professional killers. I'm just sorry that they passed away a few years before you were born. Don't know about your mother's side."

"How'd they die?" Clint's question surprised him.

"Cancer took your grandmother, and your grandfather just gave up after he buried her. He was dead within six weeks. Pastor had already ordered a headstone the morning after she was buried, just needed to figure out what date of death to put on it." Paul sighed. "Not all missions are like that one, either. We knew that there was something going on there, but we didn't know how bad it was. Just goes to show, again, how good a job you did, because my team and I have years of experience working together, and I knew how they'd act, but you...I didn't know how you'd react. Certainly not with a joke and even more hard work. I halfway was expecting you to do a runner, lose your breakfast at the very least. Your mission report could use a bit more work, but it's good enough considering what you did. You get to Psych?"

"Yeah," Clint scowled. "Coulson shoved me in there last night. Stupid."

"Sure it is, but you'll probably find it helpful in the future." Paul reached out and clapped Clint on the shoulder. "Good talking to you, Barton, now I'm off to head home to my girls, rest of my team is off, too. None of us really live on the Helicarrier."

"Bye," Clint sat down on the floor, staring out the window. "Hey, Paul?"

"Yeah?" Paul came back over.

"How old are your kids?"

"Susan is ten, Stephie is twelve." Paul pulled out a small photo, passing it over to Clint. It was of two blonde girls draped over a dog.

"Just...make sure that they've got someplace to go if something happens to you and your wife." Clint handed the picture back, without looking at Paul. "Don't let them end up alone."

"SHIELD takes care of their own, Barton. I don't have any fears for them, but thanks." Paul left, and Clint just sat on the floor, staring out the window.

"That was nice of you." Coulson leaned against the window next to Clint.

Clint snorted. "Nobody deserves my life. Paul was telling me about family."

"I heard." Coulson was quiet for a minute. "I'm heading out tomorrow morning. What were you planning on doing?"

"Dunno." Clint shrugged. "Can I go back to Manhattan?"

"Not an option, sorry."

"Well, then, what does the amazing Agent Coulson say that the punk Agent Barton should do?" Clint just _knew_ that Coulson was rolling his eyes.

"Explore the ship. Go play with sniper rifles. Start flying lessons. Start learning a new language, I'll let you choose which."

"How do I learn a new language? And I want to learn French first."

"We've some programs. You can learn French first, if you agree to learn Russian after that."

Clint could practically hear the thoughts running through Coulson's head. "Which one would be more useful?"

"Russian, actually, if only because we do end up in that part of the world on a somewhat regular basis. But I did promise you a reward, so you can do some French first." Coulson sat down next to Clint. "Haven't decided if I'm going to need to start carrying a chair around with me – do you enjoy sitting on the ground?"

"Don't wear the nice clothes then." Clint absentmindedly shot back. "Do you have it all written down, what you want me to do?"

"I have what SHIELD needs you to do written down." Coulson shook his head. "Because right now, Barton, you've got slightly misplaced loyalty. Around here, it's SHIELD first. Always. People will come and go; bases, safe houses, and the Helicarrier will change; enemies get better and worse – but the _organization_ will remain. Get where I'm going?"

"Kinda? You're saying that right now, my first thought is for your approval, but it shouldn't be, it should be what's best for SHIELD, even if it includes telling you to go to hell." Clint nodded. "I don't know if I can do that, but I can try? But I don't know how to tell the difference. Right now I'd probably say the best thing for SHIELD is to keep you around?"

"And what if what is best for SHIELD includes leaving me behind someplace? Middle of a hostile area, you've got information that _must_ get back, and our safe house is found. Surrounded by people with guns that just want to kill us both. Because you don't go out alone, you'll always be sent out with a handler. Me, unless something comes up that means that I can't go. So, safe house found, all you've got is the intel, your bow, three arrows, a knife, a handgun with half a clip of ammo left, twenty bucks in your shoe, and your radio. Reinforcements are at least three hours away." Coulson felt slightly bad, pressing Clint like he was, but he needed to get Clint's mindset in the correct channels before it was too late. It was already pushing it.

"I don't know."

"Think about it. Our last solo operative, that's how he died, because he didn't put SHIELD above his handler. Granted, he didn't use a bow, but he had an equivalent amount of ammo on him, same amount of training as you'll have by the time you're sent on your first solo mission, but he chose to go and try to rescue somebody whose death certificate was already signed. Because of a damned poor decision, SHIELD lost two good men and valuable intelligence, which meant that we had to go in blind, with more men and supplies than were actually needed, and a lot more people ended up dead or injured than needed to." Coulson took a look at Clint. "So?"

"I don't know." Clint shook his head. "It's a bit to think about, because you're _here_, and SHIELD..." He trailed off.

"SHIELD isn't a single, physical, thing or person." Coulson nodded. "It's hard, but it'll come. I'll keep pushing you, too. But I do want you to think about it, and tell me what you would have done in that situation when I get back."

"'kay." Clint turned to look at Coulson. "Is that why you don't want me to call you by your first name?"

"Partially." Coulson nodded. "It's also because I'm your superior." He stood up. "I'll drop everything off in your room tonight."


	13. Chapter 13

One would think Fury has an ulterior motive when it comes to Clint. Coulson has a frustrating day. Something from the Ultimate version of Hawkeye shows up, but who would the author be if it wasn't twisted slightly around?

* * *

"The punk Agent Barton would only leave the amazing Agent Coulson with a direct order from said Agent Coulson." Clint's voice had Coulson glancing up from his breakfast. "Welcome back. Obviously, I survived, wasn't tossed in the brig, and did think about what you told me to think about. Not telling you that I only ate ice cream and pudding. Even started those French tapes."

"And?"

"Pas mal." Clint shrugged. "Je pense qu'il serai mieux si je peut lire la langue, donc, je voudrais acheter des livres."

"Prove that you know what you just said in English, Clint, and aren't just parroting something you thought looked cool on paper."

Clint sighed, then translated. "Not bad. I think it'd be good if I could read it, too, so I want to get some books."

"And all that after just four days?" Coulson was surprised; the initial testing hadn't suggested that Clint had a talent for learning languages.

"Four days of nearly constant listening to the tapes. Even got permission to listen to them on the range. Folks here are a lot cooler about that sort of thing than back in Manhattan." Clint didn't mention that he'd been practicing a couple things just for when Coulson got back; if his handler couldn't figure _that_ out, then Coulson needed more practice.

"Still, four days to that level of speaking is more than pretty good, the true test will be if you understand somebody that's speaking it." Coulson nodded. "Now, only with a direct order? Tell me why."

"Because two sets of eyes are better than one, and there is always a chance that with those three arrows, half a clip of ammo, and knife, plus whatever you've got inside the safe house, a hole could be created that would allow you out. I might be able to see something from the outside that you couldn't from the inside, and you might be able to see something from the inside that I wouldn't from the outside." Clint nodded firmly. "You never said that you didn't have anything, after all. Plus, get help on the way, try and hold on until dark. There's always a chance that three arrows can open a space big enough, especially after dark when people are tired."

"Higher ups decide that a rescue mission isn't feasible, it's the middle of the morning, and there's nothing in the safe house. It's an impossible goal." Coulson leaned forward, challenging Clint.

"Then you'd better make it a direct order, Coulson. Like I said." Clint met Coulson's eyes, showing his distress. "I _get_ that you want my primary focus to be SHIELD. And I'll try, but it's going to be really really hard."

Coulson sat back, satisfied. "You've already started. Needing a direct order is just fine, and on a purely personal and selfish level, I'd rather that I'd make the call about my incredibly painful, albeit theoretical, death, than leave it up to somebody else." He nodded. "Want a new one?"

Clint made a face. "Hit me."

"You know how rumors travel around here. You hear one that there's a problem with the engines, sabotage. We're dead in the water. But the rumor says that the sabotage was done by Director Fury, with full support of whoever his second is."

"Easy. Talk to you."

"I'm not around, or I'm his second. Either way, it's up to you to decide what to do."

Clint looked thoughtful. "How good are the rumors? Because I heard one this morning that said that I was able to successfully pull one over on you."

Coulson eyed Clint suspiciously. "Oh?"

Clint shook his head. "Four days of nearly non-stop language tapes just about gave me enough to say hello, how's the weather, and order a cup of coffee and dinner. I practiced that line for the past day and a half. There are like four different verb conjugations in there alone, so of course I know what I was saying." He grinned. "So, how good are the rumors?"

"How good are any rumors? They're okay, but not completely trustworthy."

"Then..." Clint furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "I'd try to track down the source of the rumors, first. See if they really were true."

"Any rumors about my desire to destroy SHIELD or SHIELD property are to automatically be considered false, Agent Barton. If I wanted to blow something up, I'd damn well do it and not cover it up."

Clint tilted his head back. "Hiya, sir. Really? If you do, can I watch? 'Cause that'd be _badass._"

Fury ignored him. "Agent Coulson. Something's come up." He tossed a file onto the table and walked off.

Coulson opened it, and glanced through what was in there. "Barton. Did you actually do more than jerk off for the past four days and do as was asked and start to get dialed in on a sniper rifle?"

Clint started to sit up straighter, offended at what Coulson was implying, then saw the _look_ he was getting. "Yeah. Haven't figured out what kinda sight I like, though. None of them feel quite right."

"How far out can you accurately hit?"

Clint tilted his head to the side, thinking. "Ummm...I think about 75 yards without a sight for a headshot equivalent. 100 on a good day. And 400 yards with a sight. Haven't tried any further yet." He caught Coulson's gaze. "I just have really good eyes?"

"Good. Make sure you visit the eye doc when we get back, simply because I'm curious. Take this," he handed the file to Clint, "Go pack up your uniform, grab whatever rifle and scope you feel most comfortable using, meet me on the flight deck in thirty."

"Why?"

"Read the file, we're heading out for a target of opportunity. Don't know why Fury's jumping the gun, so don't ask. Bring clean socks and your passport."

* * *

In the Quinjet, Clint held out the file to Coulson. It was opened to a map. "Hey. What's all this saying?"

"It's a map." Coulson was confused as to why Clint was asking. "It's of the area where the target's been spotted every morning."

"I _know_ it's a map. I just can't read all of it." Clint was feeling annoyed. "More specifically, I can't read _this_ section." He pointed out a section of the map, which had several shades of yellow. "Seriously, it looks like it's important, but it's blending together with what I'm thinking are some pink spots and why they're using pink and yellow on this map I wish I knew because they're _stupid_ colors, and bits of it are white, which is cutting other stuff off."

A sudden chill washed over Coulson. "Clint...are you _colorblind?_" He grabbed the file and a black pen, outlining the different areas on the map and scribbling a few notes.

"No! I can see colors!" Clint stared at Coulson, the challenge clear. "Hasn't been a problem, much, and it's really just yellow and _rarely_ green and blue, and it's mostly when everything's the same texture or on paper or I'm really really tired. I deal just _fine_. Besides, it's getting better than when I was little. Kinda."

Coulson shook his head, handing the file back. "There. Better? And when we're done, psych and then medical in that exact order. Understand? Right now I don't even _want_ to know how you passed the vision test for your license."

Clint wrinkled his nose. "Yeah. Better. Understood. And they didn't test for colors." He went back to staring at the file, tracing part of the map with one finger. "So what are we doing, again?"

"What do you think, Barton." Coulson had stood up and was staring out the front of the jet, thinking.

"I'm thinking, _boss_, that you want me to kill somebody. With a gun. Now, granted, it's a nice gun and all that, but I'd much rather use my bow, especially since I've been using a bow for a lot longer than I've been using this thing." He nudged the rifle case with his foot. "Just thought that I wasn't going to be allowed out for this sort of gig yet?"

"You weren't. But, Fury seems to have some idea about what he's doing, so I'm not going to argue unless something terrible happens. And in this particular situation, using a gun is much safer." Coulson didn't turn around.

"Sir? Are you mad at me?" Clint was kicking himself, that he hadn't said anything before now. He just hadn't thought it was a big deal; it was something that he'd had for almost as long as he could remember, and so for him perfectly normal. And it really was getting better; there was a time that he had had just as much trouble with blue, too.

"No." Coulson gave a brief shake of his head. "Just putting a couple very small clues together, and wondering just if you were giving off any glaringly obvious signs. When you dumped those yellow highlighters on my desk and took all my red pens, that should have been some sort of suggestion to me, don't you think? Not to mention, there have been a couple times that you've looked like you got dressed in the damned dark, but I always chalked those things up to your being you. I'm also thinking we're going to have to revise our intake screenings so that nobody has to be surprised like this again." He turned around, seeing a stricken look on Clint's face. "It's not a deal-breaker, Barton, just something that we'll work with. We've dealt with a lot worse. We'll get you tested, see just what exactly is up with your eyes, and move on. I already had questions about just how well you can see things, this will simply be something else to ask."

"Nothing wrong with my clothes. They fit, aren't full of holes, and are usually clean when I put them on. I also took your pens to try and piss you off." Clint relaxed, going back to looking over the file, staring at the pictures that were included. "And I gave some of them back."

"Yes, in a manner that encouraged my reflexes and dodging abilities."

"It worked, didn't it?" Clint smirked down at the pictures. "And you didn't get any ink on your fancy clothes, either." A pen bounced off his chest. "Hey!"

"My reflexes, aim, and dodging abilities are perfectly fine, Barton, I don't need your help. While they may not be up to your level, my position and duties require me to use my brain and ability to manage you and others that, I pray, won't be as difficult as you are, although that is not a bad thing. As you've said, it's good training for me, too. If I'm ever in a situation that will require fighting, believe me, I can well hold my own. Just because you don't see me in the gym or on the range doesn't mean I'm not there." A pause. "And don't even think about throwing that pen at me."

Clint did anyways. Coulson gave the box of cookies he'd brought to the pilots.

* * *

There was a car waiting near the clearing where the Quinjet landed, a nondescript man leaning against the hood. Coulson hurried over and had a low conversation with the man as Clint tried to wheedle a cookie from the pilots. Successful, Clint grabbed the bags and headed over to the car.

"Backseat," Coulson said as Clint tossed their things into the trunk. "We'll drop everything off at the safe house, then take a walk." He slid into the front seat, nodding at the man sitting behind the wheel.

Clint stared out the window, watching as the forest they were driving through turned into a small city. It was a little run-down, he thought, and nothing at all like Manhattan. The car pulled to the side of the road, and he looked up at the front. Coulson didn't move, so he didn't, either. "Sir?"

"Sometimes getting to where we need to go can be interesting." Coulson was staring out the front. "Okay." He climbed out of the car, heading for the trunk. Clint followed. "Here," he said, handing Clint the rifle case, picking up the other two bags himself. "Let's go."

The rooms that they had were better than some places Clint could remember sleeping, but it wasn't someplace that he wanted to spend any amount of time. Looking at Coulson, he gently placed his gun on the floor. "Better than a pile of straw," he admitted.

Coulson just shook his head. "These places need to blend in, so we get what the locals get, just in case somebody decides that they want to break in." Walking over to a box by one wall, he pulled a key from his pocket. "Lockbox is one notable exception. Stuff in here for now. It's not paranoia if it's common sense. Also, don't drink the water, and if you can avoid saying anything other than please, thank you, and excuse me to the locals, please do. I'd rather not have to explain to a foreign government why they shouldn't lock you up."

"'kay." Clint moved the bags to where Coulson had indicated, then wandered over to a window. "So how does all this work again?" He felt Coulson looking at him. "This isn't really a jungle, after all, and there are a lot more people."

"Normally, you'd get a bit more downtime than six days." Coulson had taken off his jacket and tie, and was rolling up his sleeves. "But this is similar. Find someplace hidden where you can get a shot off and get out, safely. Get back here without being followed or seen. The two of us go home."

"Simple as that, huh?" Clint's hand was rapidly tapping the windowframe, his forehead resting against the glass.

"Did you read all of the file?" Coulson moved to lean against the wall, where he knew that Clint could see him. "Second thoughts about anything?"

"Yeah, I know about this guy, at least what was in the file. Killer-for-hire." Clint sounded subdued. "Works mostly with HYDRA and that other group. AIM. Some mobsters, too. Took out one of our groups a couple months ago, using some pretty crazy traps and tricks." He shifted around to look at Coulson. "And yeah. Second thoughts. Why kill, and not capture?"

"SHIELD isn't designed to hold people long-term. This guy has no useful information for us, has done nothing that US courts would convict him on simply because he has never set foot in the US, and the international courts wouldn't do anything either because he's not a big enough name." Coulson had expected Clint to get cold feet at least once, and had come prepared; he'd pull out the big guns later. "Now, I want you to look at the environment. Not street level, but up high." He watched as Clint moved back to staring out the window. "What do you notice?"

"Everything's so _old_. Like, as old or older than you." Clint stored Coulson's comments away to worry over later; following orders and answering questions was easier. "Few flat roofs, but they're mostly angled. Couple churches – they're the pointy type with lots of decorations. And those random arches that come off from the church roofs. What are those called?"

"Look it up later. So, anyplace you can see to hide on a rooftop?"

Clint narrowed his eyes, staring at a few different buildings. "Not really. Maybe if I could act like a church decoration."

"Preferably as a last resort. So, rooftops are out. Where else could there be a good hiding spot?"

Clint's gaze shifted lower. "Most of the buildings are occupied. Absolutely nothing at street level, there are too many people."

"Good." Coulson nodded. "Now, tourists aren't completely unknown around here, so let's go take a walk, see what we see. Don't be afraid to look around. If you're completely lost, just follow my lead."

Clint followed Coulson through the streets, letting his eyes wander. There were a _lot_ of people out, he realized, all of them taking fast looks at him and Coulson, and it was making him slightly tense, but he shoved the feelings down and just kept on walking. They ended up at a small restaurant, where the waiter cheerfully babbled something, Clint wasn't quite sure what but he'd caught "America!" in there, and brought them both food. Finishing, Coulson dropped some money on the table, standing up and heading for the door. "Let's go."

"So, what else did you see out there?" Coulson was sitting on the floor, files spread out around him. "Besides a lot of people."

Clint was prowling from one side of the room to the other. "All the buildings were in use, but not completely. We were getting a lotta looks from people, guy at the restaurant somehow knew that we were American. Only word he said that I could understand."

"Our clothes." Coulson said absentmindedly, frowning at something he was reading. "Get used to it, unless you want to start buying clothes to blend in. Even then, that's not a guarantee; how many blue-eyed blonds did you see walking around? So, see anyplace where you could get set up?"

"Couple office buildings, maybe, but I'd want to see them a few times to get an idea of patterns." Clint scratched his head. "And my hair, really?"

"Situational awareness, Barton. More than that, _environmental_ awareness. You'll learn, hopefully, to see the environment and figure out how to blend in." Coulson scratched out something on the file, before scribbling notes in the margin. Intel was getting sloppy.

"Like how all the men were wearing black shoes? Actually, they looked a lot like you do right now. Just less...paperwork-y."

"Good eyes." Coulson nodded, swapping files. "So, what would you like to do?"

"Do?" Clint didn't understand the question.

"Yes. I'll help you out, but I'm not giving you answers. You need to find a location to set up, one with a good sightline to the target. We've got his patterns around here down; they were all in the file that you read. So, what would you like to do?" He moved his work out of Clint's way when the archer went to sit down next to him.

"I think..." Clint's voice sounded unsure, then firmed up. "I want to get an idea of patterns of the rest of the area. There are a lot of locals out _now_, but what is it like during other times of the day? Also figuring out when would be the best time, too. Just...the patterns."

"Perfect." Coulson held out the file he'd been looking at. "And here are some of your answers. Won't be as good as actually getting out there, but this is an area that, for some reason, we've had to come to before, so we've got some good information already. It's also why there are assets like this already in place." He saw Clint try to cover a yawn. "Go to sleep, Barton, this isn't time-sensitive, you can work on it more in the morning."

"There's only the one bed?"

"I won't sleep until you're awake." Coulson shook his head. "Safety." Looking up, he caught Clint's curious look. "Somebody needs to be awake at all times, just in case disaster strikes."

"Oh."

* * *

Coulson didn't know how long it had been, but he was starting to get annoyed with the work he'd brought and was debating switching over to his book when he heard small whimpers coming from the bed. Sighing – of course, this had to happen, just another day in the life of Phil Coulson, and he wondered if it could be classified as part of the mission and therefore Not His Problem – he looked over at the pile of blankets that was Clint. "Barton." He called out. "Clint." When that didn't work, he tried throwing his pen, but whatever part of Clint he hit wasn't sensitive enough to have it wake him up. Standing up, he walked across the room and pulled the blanket off.

Shaking his head, Coulson thought about how damn young the archer looked, and, for once, not like he'd just pulled something or was about to run off. "Clint," he said, lightly kicking the younger man's foot. "Wake up." He stepped back as Clint kicked out, sitting up wide-eyed. "Nightmare?" Coulson just turned around and went back to his patch of floor, letting Clint take a second to gather himself.

"Yes. No. Maybe. What time is it?" Clint worked on slowing his breathing down.

"Good time to be getting up and taking a look around." Coulson headed to the window, assuming that Clint would follow. "So, observations?"

"Lot quieter, even though the sun's starting to come up." Clint stared out the window, repeating the pattern of observations that Coulson had guided him through the night before. "Still the same things with the roofs, although the churches have a lot of shadows on them. Not a lot of lights on in the buildings." He quickly shut his eyes, shaking his head. "Didn't need to see _that_, though. Ew. Ummm, street. Yeah. Empty, mostly. Couple people out." Shifting, he stared at a building. "There. That one."

"That one what?"

"It's got an alley behind it, which means that I can get to the roof without having to go through the building itself. The roof is flat, but there's a bit of a ledge, so less visibility from the street."

"Good reasoning, although you'd want to make sure that you could actually get to the roof. Now you get to do it all over again for where we know the target actually will be." Coulson looked at his watch. "Did you want to sleep some more, or can I lie down for a little?"

"Can't sleep after a nightmare." Clint shrugged. "I'm just gonna keep looking."

"Get bored, those files might be interesting reading for you." Coulson lay down, and quickly fell asleep.

Clint stared out the window some more, watching as the street filled up with people. Patterns, right. He was good with patterns; just had gotten sloppy these past few months because he didn't need to worry about any of that in SHIELD facilities. Practicing finding the level of calm that he used in the circus before performing, Clint just stood at the window until he heard movement in the room.

"Barton. Report."

"It gets crowded out there during the day. I think the best time to move through the streets carrying anything odd would be early morning. Cars all over the place, so could it be better to drive to wherever?"

"How many cars did you see out this morning?" Coulson stood behind Clint. "Did you even move?"

"Couple, and nope. Watching for patterns – it isn't like I haven't waited around places before just watching. This is just a lot different." Clint turned around and stared at Coulson. "Didn't look at those files though, sorry."

"That's not a problem, there's still time." Coulson glanced at his watch. "What would you like to do now?"

"Ummm..." Clint thought for a minute. "Go home?" Coulson just gave him a _look_. "Right. Not an option. Don't know."

"What do you do with rumors?" Coulson was out to make this as hard as possible, that Clint was sure of.

"Confirm them? So, go make sure that what's really out there matches with what the file and that crappy map say?"

"Good idea. Make sure you've your passport with you this time." Coulson paused. "And put on some clean socks. It's like you were raised in the circus."


	14. Chapter 14

A lot happens. Coulson gets mad. There are doctors.

* * *

It took Clint four days to decide just where would give him a good place to shoot from, and Coulson prodded him through figuring out how he was going to get there, when he'd try to get there, and how he'd get back to their rooms safely. Early the fifth morning, Coulson handed Clint a hat and watched as Clint went out the window. Shaking his head, Coulson wondered just where Clint had found the space to keep up some of the skills he'd been noticed for, then firmly resolved to follow the younger man around one day to see if he could figure it all out.

"I'm in place, Coulson." Clint was sitting on a roof, in the shadows cast by a chimney. "Can't see anything decent yet. Still too dark."

"To be expected."

Sighing, Clint leaned back against the chimney, staring at the sky, running through just what he was going to do. Find target. Shoot target. On the way back, dump the shell casing someplace if it hadn't gone flying already, and if he needed, all the rest of it, although Coulson had said that replacing _those_ would come out of his paycheck, so only get rid of them if he was going to be stopped by the cops, or whatever the police were called around here. "Hate the damned scope," he muttered, looking at the building where the target lived, then back up at the sky.

"What was that, Barton?" Coulson shook his head at Clint's lack of response. "What do you see?"

"Stars. Lots and lots of pretty stars. Be awesome if we could go there." Clint shifted position, looking down at the street. "Nothing, sir. Same as last night and the night before. Hey, after this, can I finally go back to Manhattan?"

"Why." Clint had to grin at the "why me," tone of voice Coulson was using. It was a nice change from the usual, that was for sure.

"Left some stuff, and," Clint broke off, spotting a change in the patterns he'd observed. "Sir?"

"What."

"Light came on in guy's window." Clint narrowed his eyes slightly. "He's...not in sight. Wait, he's getting dressed, and can I say ew, old people."

"Commentary noted, if you tell me your definition of old."

"You." Clint watched as the lights went out. "Is there any way to get something like super-good hearing, too? 'Cause lights are out now."

"Commentary ignored, Barton, be happy for that." Coulson closed his eyes, holding back a sigh. "He comes out, take the shot."

Clint shifted, raising the rifle and focusing on the door, as a car pulled up. "Car arrived."

"Then shoot the target first." Coulson shook his head, hoping that Clint would actually make the shot. He wanted to leave just as much as Clint.

"No, _really_?" Clint bit his lip, shoving back his nervousness.

"Smart ass. Order is, shoot the target _first_. Need me to say it again?"

Clint kept on watching the door. "No." The door started to open, and Clint took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, he watched as his target – he couldn't think of this guy as a human, or else he'd freak out and freaking out wasn't allowed on rooftops – came into view. As Clint let out a second deep breath, he focused on the target's head, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The recoil and the softened sound of the bullet leaving the suppressed gun almost surprised him, and he let out a small grunt as he quickly lowered the rifle and pressed back against the chimney. Turning his head, he watched as the car drove off, leaving the man on the ground, unmoving. The amount of blood and brain matter Clint could see in the dim light made him feel sick.

"Done. Car left, nobody even got out to look around." Clint felt like crying. "Can we go _home_ now?"

"Get back here first, then we'll talk." Coulson stared out the window, a small frown on his face at how Clint sounded. "Clint. You're doing good."

Clint didn't respond, focusing on getting down to the street. Breaking down the rifle as much as he could, it got shoved into a backpack. The route back that he was supposed to take brought him down to the street about half a mile away from the apartment, and he spent the entire time it took for him to walk through the streets feeling like there was a gigantic neon sign over his head, shouting out that he just shot a man in the head, in cold blood, and left the body in the street. It gave him a faint prickling between his shoulder blades, and it was hard to resist the urge to hunch over and start running.

Reaching the building, Clint walked completely by it, heading for the building next door, and the fire escape that was easily reached from the ground. "Coulson, open the window, would you?" He asked, as he climbed the ladder as high as he could go, then did what was probably the most difficult part of this whole thing. He jumped from the ladder to the fire escape on the apartment, climbing down and using the ledges under the windows to carefully make his way back inside. Placing the bag on the floor, Clint ignored Coulson and flopped down on the bed, turning his radio off. "_Now_ can we go home?"

"I called in for pickup tomorrow. Why do you think I'm making us stay another day?" Coulson felt a little concerned about how pale Clint looked. "You doing okay?"

"I'm _fine_. I just want to go _home_." Clint buried his head under the pillow, which muffled the rest of his response. Coulson just walked over and pulled it away. "And I need a nap, so give it back."

"Didn't catch what you said, there. Why are we staying an extra day?"

"Um," Clint took his time in trying to work it out. "Look, I know breaking and entering, theft, _teeny_ bit of embezzlement, that sort of stuff. Not murder."

"Using what you do know, why aren't we stealing away like thieves in the night?"

Clint scowled at Coulson. "I usually went out during the day, because there were actually less people around to see me, random people walking or driving down the street don't make anybody wonder, and I wouldn't run the risk of waking people up. Doing night work is tricky, unless you _know_ that there aren't dogs, alarm systems, nosy neighbors, and the house is going to be empty for a couple days. That saying is _crap_. But okay. I can figure this out. So, Coulson, why are we waiting around another day?"

"I asked you that, Clint. Stop stalling." Coulson gave Clint a look, one that had been effective in the past. "Now. Why?"

"I'm not stalling, I'm _thinking_, and you were the one who said that I had to learn to ask for help when I needed it, because you didn't want me to run off and do something stupid. So, I guess it's because there isn't anybody who can come and get us?"

"Not really. It's because leaving right now would look extremely suspicious. We stay around and there's a big fuss raised today because of a dead body in the street, we can say that we changed our plans because of safety, but the first flight we could catch was tomorrow. _That's_ why we're staying another day." Coulson dropped the pillow back on Clint's head. "Take your nap."

Clint raised up the pillow, staring at Coulson. "Before I do, can I ask you something?"

"You just did, but yes."

"How do you _know_ all this stuff? I mean, you said that the _last_ solo operative ended up getting himself and his handler killed, so he obviously wasn't you, but yeah. You get what I mean?"

Coulson shook his head. "Not for you to know." He turned away from Clint and went to pick up his book, ignoring the younger man. Clint, for his part, just stared at Coulson questioningly and then rolled over, curling up in a ball and trying to fall asleep.

* * *

Clint slunk out of the psychiatrist's office, seeing Coulson waiting. "Have I said before that I hate you?" He grumbled, heading for the hall.

"Hold it, Clint." Coulson had a suspicion that this would be routine for Clint and made the mental note to bring something to do while he dragged Clint through all the routine post-mission requirements. "Medical too, remember?"

"Why? I didn't fall off a roof. I didn't even get a papercut." Clint knew he was sulking and didn't care.

"You agreed. I'm curious about your eyes. It's the rules. Take your pick."

"My eyes are _fine, _Coulson. I don't _care_ about why I can see what I can and what I can't. I'm used to it." Clint kept edging towards the door.

"Fine, then," Coulson was rapidly losing his patience, and reached out, grabbing the back of Clint's collar. "Let's just call it me wanting to know what sort of smart-assed comments I'm going to have to put up with in the future because you can see things that the rest of us requires a damned spotting scope for."

Clint, surprised, didn't resist as Coulson pushed him into an exam room, practically slamming the door shut and leaning against it. "Um, sir?"

"New rules, Barton." Coulson spoke quickly, hoping to get through it all before the doctor walked in or Clint got over his shock. "One. After each and every mission, you _will_ visit psych and medical within 24 hours of returning. Sooner if you're injured, and that does include papercuts. Two. Do _not_ push me about this. I even go through it." He pulled his jacket off, showing Clint the bright bandage around his elbow through his shirt. "See? Three. I will follow you when you do drag your resisting ass in here, so that I know that you're actually cooperating with the doctors. I won't go into your meetings with psych, but I will be waiting outside. Less than five minutes, I know you're blowing smoke, I want you in there a _minimum_ of thirty, unless Beeks and _only_ Beeks tells me otherwise. Four. When I say to do something, it's for a _damn_ good reason, so you'd better damn well do it. I'll _take_ your bitching and moaning, but the minute you start acting like you're three, all bets are off." Shrugging his jacket back on, Coulson stared at the archer. "Five. I will attempt to explain the reasons behind things, but if I can't, you just need to deal. Six. Do _not_ piss me off. Seven. Break any of these rules, there _will_ be consequences. Do you understand me."

Clint was staring, wide-eyed. Not trusting his voice, he just nodded. Coulson was _scary_ when he started talking in that tone, and a funny feeling started burning in his chest. Clint stored it away to worry over later, hearing a knock on the door.

"Good." Coulson moved away from the door and sat down in the chair, still watching Clint, as the doctor entered. "Doctor. He just got to climb on some roofs, but I want you to look at his eyes. Need some testing done to figure out just how colorblind he is, as well as his visual acuity. The intake testing he was given was all wrong." He chose to give Clint the benefit of the doubt; that first day had been designed to keep him off balance, so Coulson didn't think that Clint was able to do anything _but_ be honest.

"He'll need to go and see a specialist for that. We don't have any of those here, so we'll get you in someplace. Can probably make it tomorrow, day after at the latest." The doctor nodded at Coulson. "You staying?"

"Yes. Barton has to prove to me that he'll behave. Make it Tuesday, I'm not letting him go anywhere until then, and he's going to be in debriefings for a bit tomorrow." Coulson ignored Clint's hurt look. "Thank you, doctor."

"Works for me." The doctor shrugged, turning to Clint. "Agent Barton, hurt anywhere?"

"Just my idea that I was actually an adult." Clint mumbled, still staring at Coulson. Coulson, for his part, just gazed steadily back, warning clear in his eyes.

"Can't fix that, so just going to give you a once-over, draw some blood. Up on the table, please."

Clint hadn't taken his eyes off Coulson during his exam, and kept on watching his handler out of the corner of his eye as they walked out of medical. "Um, sir?"

"What, Clint." Coulson only had part of his attention on the younger man, instead thinking about the piles of work he had to catch up on and if he still had that bottle of painkillers in his desk.

"It's Friday?" Clint took a deep breath and rushed through the rest of the words, hoping that Coulson wasn't as mad as he'd sounded and wouldn't interrupt. "And we kinda missed _last_ Friday because you were gone and I know that I haven't _had_ the time to mess up my room but I did keep it clean before we went off and I kept my room in Manhattan clean until we left _there_ and I didn't bring any movies or my books with me which is mostly why I wanted to go back to Manhattan but maybe we can still see if there's anything on TV tonight?" He took a careful look at Coulson, before continuing. "I know that this might sound kinda weird but I like those movie nights although I don't know how we'd get takeout here. Don't think the bike guy from the Italian place could handle the water."

When Coulson didn't respond, and his expression didn't change, Clint shoved down his disappointment. "No worries, then." He figured that he'd go to the range or something.

Coulson, for his part, was trying to keep moving, surprised that this topic had even come up; he'd expected Clint to run off as soon as he could. Barton. Right. "I think we can figure something out, Clint. I need to do a couple things first, but seven work for you?"

"Yeah." Clint nodded with a big smile. "Cool."

Coulson watched as Clint moved off. Heading for his office, he tried to figure out what had just happened, as he sorted through the piles on his desk. Jotting himself a note to sit down and talk with Delores the next time he was in Manhattan, he glanced at the clock, then got to work.

* * *

"Agent Barton, I can say, without a doubt, that you have the most _interesting_ eye structure that I've ever seen before." The ophthalmologist sat back, looking between Clint and Coulson. "Did you know that you can actually _change_ the focal length of your eye? The motor control that you've got over your ocular muscles...astounding. Not to mention, the sheer _number_ of rod cells you've got in there. I've yet to hear of _any_ human with those particular changes; there's a paper in there someplace."

"So I'm a freak?" Clint shrugged. "Could've told you _that_." His tone was flippant, but Coulson could hear the underlying hurt.

"Doctor," Coulson tried to keep everything moving. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means, that for whatever reason, your Agent Barton's eyes more resemble a bird of prey's eyes than yours or mine. I actually had to call in a friend of mine from the zoo to take a look, just for confirmation you see, and he said that with the way that his eyes are, he might be even better off than your average raptor. One thing that you'll want to be careful about, however, is try to remember to wear sunglasses; you've probably noticed that you are more comfortable going out on a cloudy day, yes?" At Clint's nod, he continued, "but that's really the biggest problem with that."

"So I shouldn't stare directly into the sun. Gotcha." Clint nodded. "And I've got freaky eyes." Shifting restlessly, he glanced at Coulson. "Can we go now?"

"Not yet. Doctor. Colorblindness?" What Clint _couldn't_ see was what worried Coulson the most. While Clint had freely admitted to some problems, Coulson doubted that he was being completely truthful.

"Yes. Agent Barton, do you remember getting hit in the head at any time in your life? What about chemical exposures? Alcohol?"

Clint shrugged. "Can't remember much from before all this started. There was always a lotta booze around when I was a little."

"Okay." The doctor leaned forward, flipping through a pile of paper. "Because you don't have the typical form of colorblindness, which is red-green; that's a trait that pops up in males much more than females; it's genetic. But blue-yellow, which _is_ what you have, is much more rare, occurs equally between men and women, and not much is known about it. Few cases of drunks getting it, same with people who've had head trauma. It can also be genetic. But it's so rare, and people are usually able to compensate so well, that really, not much research is being done just yet. Maybe one day. And maybe one day we'll have a cure for it, too."

"That's all very nice, how bad is it?" Coulson was starting to agree with the signals that Clint was sending off. It was time for all this to be finished; what was supposed to have been a two-hour appointment had turned into five. He didn't know if he should be amused or annoyed by the fact that the "consult" was a zookeeper.

"Could be better, could be worse. It could get better, it could get worse, it all depends on what the cause is. Agent Barton, you've said that you've had this for sixteen years?"

"Give or take. Probably closer to seventeen now." Clint leaned back in his chair. "Before I turned five, best I can remember." He was outwardly calm, but Coulson was able to spot a couple small signs of tension. "So Agent Coulson can stop annoying me, how bad are you calling it, in small words?"

"Small words. Right. Yellow? Gone forever, you'll see it in your dreams but not in your daily life. Same with blue. _Completely_ blue-yellow colorblind, according to all of our tests, you've just learned to adapt in most situations. Want proof? Here." He held out a card. "Both of you. What do you see? Agent Barton first."

"Pink and purple dots. Really _ugly_ pink and purple dots. I mean, I like purple, but _that_ shade is just, ick." Clint glanced at Coulson. "Sir?"

"Fifty-seven." Coulson just gave a look to the doctor. "And?"

"Normal vision, yeah, fifty-seven. What you've got, Agent Barton, pink and purple dots." The doctor nodded. "No cure if it's genetic; if it's not there's always a chance that things will come back, but I'd say don't hold your breath. Just enjoy your bird-vision, the fact that you saw through a fair few things in the exam room that the rest of us wouldn't, and the fact that this won't destroy your life. But, like I said, you've had a fair amount of time to learn to adapt, which is why you don't see it as a big problem."

"Thank you. If you would be so kind as to write all this up and mail it to this address so that our doctors can take a look at it all, it would be greatly appreciated." Coulson stood up, handing the doctor a business card. "Let's go, Clint."

"What now, Coulson?" Clint tilted his head back as they stepped outside, enjoying the feeling of the rain hitting his face. "Back to the plane?"

"Figured we'd stay in Manhattan tonight." Coulson flagged down a taxi. "Central Park. Wherever's closest," he told the driver, then looked over at Clint. "I need to talk to a couple people, and you had said that you needed some of your stuff that's still here." He fell silent, staring out the window. When the taxi stopped, he paid the driver, then jerked his head at Clint. "Let's go."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Clint silently followed Coulson through the park. There weren't very many people out, which Clint found nice; it gave the place a feeling of surrealism and isolation. The rain just made everything even better. Shoving back his hair, which was working on dripping into his face, he glanced at Coulson. "Even the _rain_ is scared to touch you. Cool."

"Whatever you want to believe." Coulson's tone was mild. Finding a covered bench, he sat down. "So, Clint. You weren't saying everything in the debriefing on Saturday, were you."

Mentally wincing, Clint shook his head. "I _couldn't_. They really didn't need to know _everything_ that was going through my head."

"Good thing that I wasn't recording all that radio chatter, then." Coulson looked up at Clint. "Feel free to sit down. Now, what exactly was going through your head? Couple moments that you were sounding pretty upset, and when you got back, almost looked like you were going to pass out. Bit different than after that South America op."

"Guy had a family. Kids. There were pictures in his apartment, you know? Could see a couple of them. Even trying to think of those files that you showed me didn't help much."

Coulson thought for a second. "You _can't_ have hangups about kids and families, Clint. Yes, it would be nice if everybody could have a traditional, happy family, but that just doesn't happen. Did you have a shitty childhood? Yes. But, just because you did, doesn't mean that everybody who has lost a parent will."

"You're too damn smart." Clint shook his head, feeling slightly upset. "I don't know how I can get over it, because every time I think of somebody leaving their kids behind, I get flashes of the orphanage and how shitty it was there, and I don't want to think of anybody else going through that."

"Not very many orphanages like the one you went to out there these days, you know. They've started putting kids in foster care or small group homes. There are a few bad ones out there, yes, but there are even more good ones. You just hear about the bad stuff the most, because it makes for good news." Coulson thought for a moment. "You know, maybe there's an option for you."

"What?"

"Education. You need to make a connection in your mind that just because it happened to you, it's not going to automatically happen to everybody else. Maybe some exposure to a home environment that is stable...let me talk to Delores."

"Huh." Clint shrugged. "Maybe." He thought for a second. "Also had a problem walking back afterwards. Felt like there was a big sign over my head, and that I was going to get stopped. Hard to explain away the rifle. And I was by myself this time, I wasn't trying to keep five other guys from getting killed, and there weren't any zombie-things."

Coulson shook his head. "I'm not surprised, and that'll clear up in time. But you did a damn good job. You figured out when, where, and how all on your own, you got there safely, you got back safely, and you took the shot the minute you had a chance. You'll just have to learn to stop second-guessing yourself and work on knowing when to throttle back on the idealism; blind idealism might work for Captain America, but not for the rest of us." He stood up. "Now, you may enjoy looking like a drowned cat, but I don't. I'm heading back, up to you if you want to come with or keep on playing out here in the rain."


	15. Chapter 15

Explosions. Revelations. Clint's smarter than some scientists.

* * *

"Explain to me, Delores, why after I reamed Clint out over going to psych and medical, _physically_ had to drag him into an exam room, set some rules that he'll find pretty tough to follow, and that was _after_ spending nearly a week with him in one of the worst places known to SHIELD for spending _any_ time at, he still wanted his reward for keeping his room clean?" Coulson leaned back in his chair, idly toying with his glass. "Because it gave me a shock, I'll freely admit that."

"Oh, goodness." Delores laughed. "Phil, welcome to my world. Nobody can understand the young; I _still_ don't understand mine. Just the other day, for example, June was talking about how she was about to dye her hair bright purple because her four-year-old told her that it would look 'nifty.' This particular four-year-old thinks that everything is 'nifty,' because that's his new word. I pointed that out, and June just laughed at me, and said that the rest of the kids agreed. Never mind that all of her children are under the age of ten. I'm worried about the family Christmas picture right now; hopefully she's just going to use one of those temporary Halloween dyes. Plus, there are times that _you'll_ say or do something, and I'll be reminded that you're younger than I think."

"Huh." Coulson thought about that for a minute. "Interesting."

Delores pointed at him with her fork. "Congratulations, Phil, it's a boy." She smiled. "You just get to avoid some of the worst parts."

"I don't know," Coulson's voice was dry. "Because Barton can pull off being three pretty damn well." He shook his head. "And I really, _really_ hope that I'm not getting pushed into a parental role. Dammit, Delores, I'm trained to do a lot of things, but I don't think I _can_ do this. Bad enough that he called me dad one day as a joke, then followed up by saying that I'd do a better job at it than his actual father."

"Think it's too late for doubt, because somehow, you have been. Look, Phil, you've been damned vocal about how good an asset Clint'll be when he's fully trained. And, frankly, it'll be good for _you_. You've always been so...self-contained and stand-offish. You're very good at what you do, but one problem that you do have is a certain lack of flexibility at times. I've noticed that you've become a lot more relaxed since being handed the Headache that is Barton, and that _is_ the official title for him around the base now, and honestly, I bet that the rest of your work has become not only easier, but you're getting better results too." Delores shook her head. "Am I right?"

"Unfortunately," Coulson grumbled. "So how many more years of this can I look forward to?"

"I'll let you know when I figure that out myself." Delores smiled brightly at Coulson. "What sort of rules did you give him, just because I'm curious?"

"Time limit to how long he can push off visiting psych and medical after a mission. Time requirements for sitting in psych; I don't _care_ what they talk about, or even if he says anything at all, I just want to know that he's corralled someplace while _I'm_ getting my post-mission medical exam. I'm going to be following him in medical." He held up one hand, seeing Delores start to open her mouth. "He's good at hiding things and I don't want to risk having him lie about if he's actually injured. What else. He needs to obey orders that I give, especially in the field; I said that I'd try to explain why and that I'd take some whining. I did tell him that the minute he starts acting like a little kid, all bets are off. He's not allowed to piss me off about things, and that there will be consequences if he manages to break those rules."

"The not pissing you off one might be impossible." Delores beckoned at the waitress. "Dear, would you be so kind as to get me some more water? Thank you."

Coulson waved off the waitress when she turned to ask if he'd like anything. "No, thank you. And I know that he'll piss me off, but I was feeling incredibly annoyed with him at the time, and that's one that I'm willing to be flexible on."

"What did he say to all that?"

"Not a word. He just looked at me like I had grown a second head." Coulson laughed. "Never seen him look that shocked before."

"So," Delores leaned forward. "How did he do?"

"Delores, he's _already_ a credit to SHIELD. First one, took out _six_, cool as a cucumber. All head shots, and he had some pretty bad sightlines, based on where I saw he was and where the bodies with arrows through their heads were. Second one, bit tougher, but with a little help, figured out position, timing, exit. Sure, I had to tell him to take the shot three times, but that was before he even _had_ a chance to take it – as soon as he could, he did. And really, the second two times were because a car had pulled up, and I just wanted to reinforce the idea that taking out the target was the primary goal, anybody else was secondary. And one of _those_ times was because he was being sarcastic. Returned to the safe house, mouthed off a little, then fell asleep."

"No nightmares or anything like that?"

"Few that he admitted to, but only one related to the first mission, the rest were actually from his past. Remember those pictures?" Coulson nodded. "Exactly. Only real problems were the fact that he really isn't a fan of using a rifle, and that Intel likes using colorful maps." Rolling his eyes, he continued, "turns out he can't see blue or yellow. Never said a word until we were on the jet and he asked what a map was saying."

"How on _Earth_ did that get missed?" Delores sat back in shock. "That sort of thing...Phil, what does that mean?"

"Just that Intel will need to stop playing with their colored pens so much. I hope that's all." Coulson shook his head. "He's said that it's been that way for years, and the eye doctor that he saw this morning said that between his 'crazy, bird-like eyes,' and the fact that he has adapted to real-world situations, there shouldn't be any problems. He's got some interesting vision, that's for sure."

"Oh? Actually, I was wondering why you had come back so soon. Thought that you were planning on dragging him across the country a couple times, first."

"He wanted some stuff that he left here, and we went to see that ophthalmologist today; none of the SHIELD docs were comfortable assessing him. But, it took a few hours longer than expected, simply because the doctor ended up calling in a friend from the _zoo_ of all places to take a look. They say that the control he has, as well as some other stuff, gives him eyesight that rivals some birds of prey. Needless to say, the name he was using in the circus is incredibly accurate."

"Hawkeye? Oh." Delores nodded. "I can see that. So is that also why there have been a few times that I've wanted to tell him to go put on some decent clothes?"

"Possibly, or it's just him. You can ask, I really don't care."

"I might." Delores nodded. "Now, you couldn't have had only the one rather simple question for me, otherwise you'd've been bribing me with the diner or take out, not someplace nicer uptown."

"When were you going to go visit your daughter next?" Coulson didn't look at Delores, focusing on his plate.

"June? Soon, actually; it's Thanksgiving." Delores tilted her head to the side. "Why?"

"Need to break Clint out of one of his strange fixations; he needs to see what a happy family looks like from the inside. Ironically, that was his biggest problem with this last one, or so he says; the guy had some pictures of kids in his apartment. He also told Paul Greeves to make sure he had something set up for his two girls." Coulson gave Delores a wry smile. "I promise that he'll leave all weapons locked up in the car, and that he'll behave himself, unless your grandkids drag him down to their level. Good training for him, too. And I wouldn't be asking, but he flat out refuses to talk to psych about anything."

"You and training." Delores shook her head. "Well, I'll call June and see if she's got space for two more for a few days, because to be honest, I do want you there as well. Clint listens to me, but he obeys you. She should, especially if one of you is willing to sleep on the couch."

"Clint can." Coulson nodded. "Or, if she's hard-up for beds, I'll take it, and he can sleep on the floor." He shrugged. "We'll skip out Thursday, so you can have family time together."

"Oh, don't bother, especially since she's in the habit of inviting strays for dinner. The more, the merrier, especially if the kids take to you two like I think they will. June always cooks enough to feed an army; we'll just toss together a couple more pies. Put you two to work in the kitchen or something. I do have one question for you, though. You're worried about how _he_ sees _you_, but how are _you_ treating _him_? Because Phil, from what I've seen, and from what you're telling me, you're just responding to his prompts, and showing him what he should hopefully be ending up as. Right?"

"That is a good point," Coulson nodded. "I've been trying to treat him like an adult, he's just managed to, somehow, figure out all the right buttons to push. I don't even think he's realizing he's doing it."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I guess just keep on doing the same things that I've been doing, hope that I don't go nuts, and that it all settles down in a bit." Coulson waved for the check. "And thank you, Delores."

* * *

Clint hadn't followed Coulson back to base, choosing instead to wander around Central Park until it became too dark for him to see, then he stopped at a fast food restaurant for some dinner and decided to just keep on walking south, back to base.

"Agent Barton, you look like you just walked through a hurricane." The security guard at the desk was one that Clint had seen down on the range before. "Don't you know that a man is supposed to stay out of that stuff? Catch your death of cold!" He pointed at a bowl of subway tokens on the desk. "Reason why we have these, you can just grab a few as you think you need them."

"Yeah, somebody may have said something at some point in time about all that." Clint shrugged, signing in. "Coulson here?"

"Nope. Want me to pass along a message?"

"Nah." Clint headed for the stairs. "Just curious, thanks." He took the stairs two at a time, hoping to warm up a little. Now that he'd stopped moving, spending all afternoon out in the rain probably hadn't been the best thing to do.

He took a long shower, letting the hot water chase away the chill and hopefully keep the headache that he could feel coming on at bay, then chose a movie at random and crawled into bed. He'd been trying to work out just why he'd felt odd the other day, when Coulson had yelled at him, and hadn't figured it out yet. It wasn't like Coulson hadn't yelled before, or given him rules, but they'd usually been along the lines of not annoying other people. Nope, still stuck. With a sigh, Clint rolled over, pulling the blankets over his head. He'd figure it out later.

Clint pushed through the next couple days dealing with a sore throat. That headache had gotten worse, but he'd been sick before; a week would see it starting to get better. He just hoped that Coulson wouldn't call him on it.

A bag being tossed on the table when he was poking at his breakfast one morning suggested that he hadn't hidden it as well as he'd thought. "It's just a head cold. Lotta people here have it."

"I know, and it's working its way through everybody on the Helicarrier, too. It's why I went and raided Medical for you, instead of putting up with your moaning and making you go yourself."

Clint looked through what was in the bag. Pulling out the Tylenol and cough drops, he shoved the bag back towards Coulson. "Don't take the rest of that stuff. Can't aim right."

"By not aiming 'right,' do you mean that you miss by a little, or are you a danger to everybody around you?" Coulson sat down, looking at Clint.

"That old saying 'a miss is as good as a mile' works both ways. I missed, I missed." Clint thought for a second. "I did hit the target, though. Nobody _died_ or anything like that. And that one lady only got a small hole in her sleeve."

"Good enough." Coulson shoved the bag back at Clint. "Take this stuff anyways, you sound terrible and you're not being asked to do any fancy shooting. R and D has some arrows they want you to take a look at. Finish packing up your stuff, we're going to head back to the Helicarrier this afternoon."

* * *

"Whoever made these things should be _shot_, Coulson, and their body left on display as a warning for whoever else thinks that they've the great idea of making something that they know nothing about." Clint ignored the techs and scientists standing around the table, as well as the faintly smoking debris scattered around the room. "These," he pointed, "are not arrows. These can't even _dream_ of being called arrows. I refuse to even _think_ about letting my poor bow touch one of these things."

"What would you call them, then?" Coulson was trying very hard not to laugh at the outrage he could hear from all sides.

"Crap. Total crap. Pointed sticks of _dynamite_ with even more crap on the end."

"Um, Agent Barton?" One of the scientists gingerly tapped Clint's shoulder. "We did get references, and this is all based off of Stark tech." He shrank back under the archer's cold glare.

"Yeah? I'd think I'd know a little more about arrows than you do. I've been using them for _years_. What did you use as a guide?" An arrow was held out. "Okay, so that one? Totally fake." Clint glanced at Coulson. "I'm going to go get some stuff."

Clint didn't think that anybody had moved when he got back, holding his quiver and bow. "Now, look." He pulled an arrow out. "See this? It's balanced. It's light. When I go to shoot it," he nocked the arrow, aiming at the wall, "I'm barely touching it, _if_ I even touch it at all." Releasing the tension and resting the bow against his leg, he continued, "and the arrowhead? It's _removable_. Lots of reasons for that, both historical _and_ practical." With quick movements, he pulled the arrowhead off. "Had you even _asked_, I'd've told you just what, exactly, I liked. Can I use anything? Sure. But look." He lightly bent the shaft. "Not _nearly_ the same as what you came up with, and there"

"Clint," Coulson interrupted the rant. "Stop scaring the tourists."

"But, Coulson," Clint started.

"Whining, Barton."

"The tourists," Clint tried not to sound like he was whining. "Are idiots. Who are out to _kill_ me."

Coulson sighed. "Are you ladies and gentlemen out to kill valuable SHIELD assets? No? Clint, they're not out to kill you. I'm sure that they're very sorry that the arrow exploded the way it did, and they'll send you a list of questions as to what needs to be done to make you happy in the future. However, you've got things to do other than waste time here."

Clint spun on his heel, heading for the door. "Fine. But _I'm_ going to be drawing up designs, because so _totally_ not impressed by the geeks right now. They're supposed to be smarter than me. Jesus, Coulson, where do you _find_ these people!"

As Clint stalked out of the room, ranting to the air, Coulson turned to the head of the lab. "I want all of your notes on just what you were thinking, as well as what tests you did before asking Agent Barton to try these out. Get them to me by the end of the day." Turning, he followed Clint out of the room.

"Okay, so they weren't trying to kill me. But they were still _stupid_." Clint swung in next to Coulson. "What do I have to do now, oh great handler of punks?" He was busy putting the arrow back together and didn't look around, focusing on making sure that everything was just right.

"Glad you're feeling better." Coulson glanced at his watch. "I want you to pack a bag; we're heading off for a couple weeks. Bring your language stuff. You're still working on the French, right?" At Clint's nod, he continued, "we'll be leaving in the morning. Good?"

"Cool. Where are we going? And for what?"

"Training." Coulson ignored the way that Clint rolled his eyes. "Start working on learning how to blend in when you need to, or stand out when you need to; the sorts of things that you'll need for when you're going undercover. Make sure you bring your suit."

"Okay, not cool now." Clint frowned at the arrow in his hand, before putting it back in his quiver. "Want to go on record saying that it's uncomfortable and I can't move in that thing."

"Obviously, Clint, you've never been introduced to the idea of clothing that fits. Go to stores, exchange it for one that does fit, and don't talk them into giving you one that looks like you're a little kid playing dress up. We leave at 9." Coulson turned around, walking off in the opposite direction.

* * *

Clint decided that Coulson's idea of "training" was either brilliant or the worst kind of torture. All that happened was Coulson pointing out a place that Clint had to figure out how to not stand out – and he wasn't allowed the same method two times in a row. Each night Coulson also quizzed him on patterns of how people moved around, the fastest exit, and the safest exit. A few times Clint thought that he saw Coulson wandering around, as well, but was never really sure, and he never got a straight answer when he asked. Flopping down in his hotel bed one night, he looked over at where his handler was sitting at a table. "Three."

"Three, what?"

"Three people asked me for directions today." Clint had spent all afternoon hanging out in a public park. "I helped 'em out." He thought about everything else. "Lots of ways out, depending on how crazy shit was getting, but there were a few buildings close enough with fire escapes that I could get to and up with not a lot of people seeing. Downhill was that market with the fish throwers. All those little stores, could always head in that direction and get lost in the tourists, lift a hat or something."

"Good job, then. Ready to move on?"

"Kinda, and kinda not." Clint shook his head. "I think that I might want to get my hair cut shorter. That's one thing that I've been noticing; all the guys around here don't have hair like mine. _Nobody_ I've seen with longer hair gets much in the way of respect, even when they're wearing a suit. So wonder if anything might change if I look less like a bum. Unless I'm hiding out as a bum, and even then, I've seen bums with short hair. Same with all those grunge rockers around here." Glancing at Coulson, Clint grinned. "Don't look so surprised, boss. I've been watching. And since you want me to blend, I'll blend. Besides, it's getting kinda annoying now." He plucked at the hair that was falling across his forehead. "So, yeah. Gonna go do that now, I think?"

"Don't go too short." Coulson shook his head as Clint stood back up, heading out of the room with a wave and a "I'm not stupid!" floating back.

Paternal. The word suddenly jumped into Clint's mind as he sat in the barber shop, watching everybody in the mirror. A guy had come in with his son, and had used almost the same exact tone of voice that Coulson had used the other day when the kid had started to throw a tantrum. It brought back that odd feeling, and he _still_ didn't know if he liked it or not. Sure, Coulson had talked about family and all that, but Clint hadn't totally believed him. It had been hard enough admitting that he trusted Coulson; to realize that he felt like Coulson was actually acting like Clint was family shook Clint more than he liked. Besides, Coulson was his _boss_, and Clint was pretty sure that feelings like that weren't exactly encouraged in a normal working environment. He'd never quite figured out if SHIELD was considered normal. He doubted it.

"Ugh." Clint grumbled, closing his eyes. "Too confusing." An idea hit him, and he stored it away for when he could get to a phone and some privacy to call Agent Smith. She seemed like somebody that could help him out. A tap on his shoulder made him jump, and he opened his eyes to see that the barber was done. "Thanks." Paying, he slipped out of the back door to head back to the hotel.

"Praise the Lord, he's starting to look civilized." Coulson didn't look up when Clint walked back into the room.

"Yeah, they were really nice about putting in the letters, too." Clint grinned, sitting on his bed and turning on the television. "Also got some tips on keeping the color up." He watched out of the corner of his eye as Coulson's head shot up and the newspaper he was reading lowered, and laughed at the look he was getting.

"Laugh it up, Barton." Coulson stood up, moving to where he could see what Clint was watching. "Not this one. Please. You've managed to find this every single night, I don't know how, and I'm getting to be able to hear the Cantina music in my _sleep_."

"Fine," Clint said in mock outrage, changing the channel to a news broadcast. "Better?" It wasn't like he really _wanted_ to watch Star Wars all the time; he'd really just been putting it on as another way to annoy Coulson, something that he found was way too easy to do sometimes.

"Much. Thank you. We leave first thing in the morning."


	16. Chapter 16

Fear the stuff.

* * *

Coulson pulled into the driveway of a house, shutting off the car. "Ready?" He asked, looking at Clint.

"For what?" Clint looked around, consciously noting where they were, any possible risks, and the best ways out. It had been a long week.

"You'll see." Coulson was being cryptic again, and Clint didn't like that. "Oh yeah. House rules, Clint. You get the couch. No swearing. Give me your weapons." He waited while Clint passed over his gun and a knife. "You've got another one, Clint, hand it over. Rules are, no weapons in the house, and your knives are most certainly weapons." Another knife was added to the pile. Satisfied, Coulson put them all into a bag. Another one was held out. "You know...I don't think I want to know."

"Been feeling kinda twitchy these past couple days, like something bad's gonna happen. Last time I felt like this, nearly got caught by a guy with a gun. Did get chomped by a dog. Can't stand those little yappy things after that one; they're _nasty_ when it comes to their space. Worse than the big ones." Clint shrugged. "Now what?"

"Well, other than the fact that they're waiting for us, what do you think?"

"More training?" Clint's voice was dry.

"Better." Coulson got out of the car, and locked the bag with their weapons in the trunk after adding his own gun. Picking up his bag, he headed for the door. "Coming?"

"Yeah." Clint grabbed his own bag and scrambled to follow. He stood, shifting nervously, as Coulson knocked and the door opened. A woman with purple and red hair was standing there.

"Hi! You must be Phil and Clint. I'm June, Mom said you'd probably be showing up around now. Come on in!" She stood back, letting the two men inside. Shutting and locking the door behind them, she smiled. "We keep the doors locked and deadbolted around here. Tommy has figured out that he can reach the knob, and he has an odd fascination with the dog across the street, but doesn't quite have the finger strength for the deadbolt yet." She tilted her head, listening. "Of course...kitchen is through there, family room's through there, make yourselves at home, Mom's out at the store and should be back any time now. Be right back!" She dashed off.

Clint could faintly hear a kid's voice. "Um, Coulson? _What's going on_?"

"Thanksgiving." Coulson headed towards where June had indicated the kitchen was. "And yes, it was purple and red. It was 'nifty.' There are fears for the annual Christmas family picture."

Entering the kitchen, Clint's first thought was that something had exploded. Two somethings; there was very clearly flour all over by the stove, and kids' craft supplies scattered across a table. "She your sister?"

"Think, Barton. How did she say hello?" Coulson sat down at the table, calmly opening his bag and pulling out a book. "You'll just have to wait and see if you can figure it out yourself."

"Oh. Yeah." Clint sat down too, still looking around. Tugging on his pants made him look down. "Um, hi?"

"No!" One hand holding very firmly to Clint's pants leg, the other one raised up, a toddler was staring at Clint with narrowed eyes. "No!"

"You've a fan, already. She wants you to pick her up, Clint." Coulson didn't look up from what he was reading. "That's Julia, she's one of four kids and the only girl." He hid a smile, watching out of the corner of his eye as Clint very carefully picked the toddler up, helping her balance on his lap. "I don't think she bites."

Clint stiffened as the little girl threw her arms around his neck. "No!" She gave him a big smile, and he hesitantly smiled in return.

"Julia, are you already terrorizing the guests?" June had watched the entire thing from the door. "Come here, sweetie." Moving forward, she plucked the child up and set her on the floor with a doll. "Here's your princess." Dropping into a chair, she sighed. "Well, I'd hoped to have had this place cleaned up a bit before you two got here, but then Tommy made Mom drop the flour while she was trying to make a cake to surprise you two with, Julia needed her nap, so that meant no vacuum cleaner, and the twins are still at school, although they only have a half-day today so they'll probably be appearing sometime before dinner, hopefully. Who knows about Dave; he'll be home whenever he's done getting his patients all settled at the hospital and gotten a handle on his charting. I did get places for you two to sleep set up, though, and it's mostly kid-proof, but _nothing_ is truly kid-proof these days. There are locks on the doors. Well then," she slapped the table, standing up. "Can I get you two anything? We've got water, juice, milk, might have a couple cans of soda in there."

"A glass of water would be lovely, thank you." Coulson closed his book, sliding it back into his bag. "How can we help?"

Somehow, and he wasn't completely sure how, Clint found himself sitting on the floor, wiping up the remains of spilled flour with a sponge and a toddler hanging off his shoulder, babbling...something at him, when Delores walked in. "Agent Smith?"

"Hi Clint!" Delores beamed at him. "Where's Phil? And no agent-ing me here, understand?"

"Here. And thank you, again. Guess she went for more than purple?"

"It's all temporary, Phil, although Mom almost had a heart attack when I answered the door yesterday." June stopped, glancing at Clint. "Clint, I'm sorry about Julia; she's not normally like this. I'll get her out of your hair for you. Julia! Want to go watch Big Bird?"

"Mama!" Julia held her arms up, wobbling slightly. "No no no!"

"No is her favorite word right now, one of the few that she knows." Delores set a bag down on the counter. "I think they all have favorite words in cycles; just how they use it varies. Don't let Tommy talk you into something because it's 'nifty,' gentlemen, and I'd suggest leaving your bags out of his reach; they're working on boundaries with him right now. It's how all this happened, too." She waved at the kitchen. "The twins are nine and old enough to usually know better, and they'll probably keep to themselves for the most part. Thanks for getting that, Clint."

"No problem, ma'am." Clint stood up, fidgeting with the sponge.

"Oh, that's _it_." Delores reached out and grabbed Clint's chin. "You have my official permission to call me Delores, Clint, it won't kill you, the world won't end, and it's not classified. Unlike Phil, I'm not in whatever sort of chain of command you've got going on, so his reasons won't fly for me." She shook his head slightly. "Now, Clint, will you actually call me what I want you to call me?" She released his chin, tapping his nose with a finger.

"As long as you don't ask me to call you dinner?" Clint put on an innocent smile, feeling overwhelmed.

Coulson saw the signs. "Clint. Put the sponge in the sink, and come with me." He led the way into the backyard. "Problems?"

"Little overwhelming." Clint spotted a swingset, and moved over, sitting down on a swing. "It's weird. And crazy, and I've only met two of them! How many more are there!"

"Four kids, June, her husband Dave, and Delores. There will be more people tomorrow, not sure how many." Coulson leaned against a post, watching Clint as he lightly rocked the swing. "Few reasons we're here, Clint. Biggest one is that you need to learn what a stable family is like, and while they're not at all cleared for what we do, they do know that Delores, and by extension us, work for a government agency and what we do is incredibly classified. They won't ask questions unless you say it's okay. People here for Thanksgiving dinner...private security firm is always a good explanation. The few days that we'll be here won't show you everything, and I know that it won't fix it all, but I'm hoping that you'll get on the road to understanding that just because a guy has a few pictures, doesn't mean that those kids'll end up in a bad situation."

"That's not very cool of you." Clint stared at the ground.

"Of course it isn't. But you won't talk with Psych, so I just get to figure out how to deal with all this."

"Beeks is a nosy ass. Hey!" Clint stared at Coulson as he rubbed the back of his head. "I thought that wasn't allowed!"

"It isn't. For you. Beeks is a shrink, they always ask questions. And watch your language, there are kids around." Coulson frowned at Clint. "Also, good training, seeing what classic American suburbia is like from the inside, so that if you ever need to go undercover in this sort of environment, you've got at least a basic idea. Finally...it's Thanksgiving. Had forgotten that it was coming up."

"Don't you have family?" Clint had gone back to swinging. "'Cause I'd've been good just hanging out back home and fixing those arrows."

"Define home." Coulson deliberately avoided the question. A quirk of Clint's lips suggested that his avoidance was less deft than normal.

"Helicarrier. Found out that the air ducts? Way larger than they should be, so I've been wanting to explore them some."

"They're connected to the maintenance spaces; I'll get you a map." Coulson looked up, seeing the door open. "If you want to avoid the kids, might want to head back inside now."

"Yeah." Clint stood up. Without turning around, he asked, "do you miss them? Your family?"

"I have the family I need." Coulson clapped Clint on the shoulder, heading back inside himself.

* * *

Coulson though that if Clint's eyes were any wider, they'd probably fall out of his head. "I don't know if I should laugh or feel sorry for him," he murmured, leaning towards Delores, watching Clint nervously pick at his dinner. Coulson had kept an eye on Clint all afternoon, as the kids dragged him around the house and finally into the family room, where Clint had very carefully and nervously played Legos with Tommy, Julia perched in his lap. June had admitted her surprise that when the twins returned home, they'd joined in as well.

"Laugh." Delores whispered back. "This is almost worth filming."

"Coulson, you laugh, I'll make your life a living...misery." Clint obviously caught what he was going to say, with a quick glance around the table. "I know where you sleep, and I've been learning _stuff_."

"Oh, the horror of stuff." Coulson didn't look at Clint. If he did, he'd start laughing. "Delores, I think we should be fearing for our lives right now, don't you?"

* * *

Thursday, Clint woke up to the sound of suppressed laughter and a heavy weight on his chest. Controlling his breathing and his first instinctual response, he listened, and tried to get an idea of just how many people were in the room with him. Kid on chest, obviously, and he'd hold it over Coulson later that hey, he remembered that he was someplace safe and didn't come up swinging. Weight suggested Julia – that kid was _weird_, Clint had decided, throwing a screaming fit when June had tried to put her to bed last night and holding onto Clint with a grip that was surprisingly strong. Clint had been given an impromptu lesson in bedtime routines after that.

So, Julia on chest, another kid rummaging through his bag, and probably Coulson, because he was an evil bastard like that. Clint wouldn't be surprised to open his eyes and see just about everybody in the house staring at him. "Coulson, not fair, picking the lock like that." He opened his eyes, one hand going up to hold onto Julia, who was fast asleep. Yep. Coulson standing right over him, Delores and June by the door. He wondered where Dave and the twins were. "Tommy, find anything good in there?"

"No." The four-year-old pouted. "You've got _boring_ stuff."

"Why you don't open things that aren't yours." Still holding onto Julia, Clint sat up and swung around to put his feet on the floor. "It's all boring." Carefully putting Julia down, he stood up and walked over to where Tommy had scattered his clothes. Crouching down, he used a stage whisper to ask "did you open the door, or did they let you in?"

Giggling – Clint was funny! – Tommy loudly whispered back, "Mister Coulson opened the door for me. Grandma and Mister Coulson said that I could see if you had anything fun in your bag because you were a shameless re, rep, repobrat?" He stumbled slightly over the last word.

"Reprobate. Okay." Clint nodded, grabbing at some clothes. Moving for the door, he stopped and pointed at Coulson and Delores. "I owe you. Both. Sleep with your eyes open."

"Clint Clint Clint!" Tommy had finally realized that Clint was awake and moving. "Turkey Santa parade today!"

"Huh?" Clint glanced at Tommy, then at the adults. "Turkey Santa parade?"

"Please tell me that you've heard of the various Thanksgiving day parades out there, Clint." Coulson perched on the arm of the couch. "Because if you skipped out on that little part of American tradition, I don't know _what_ I'm going to do with you. Incidentally, pick another shirt."

"Oh. Yeah. Those." Clint nodded, moving back to the piles on the floor and grabbing a different shirt. "Never had a TV to watch anything on."

"Never?" Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Not even"

Clint didn't let Coulson finish his sentence, interrupting with a glare. "No. I'm going to go get dressed, since you all seem to want to stay in here." He pushed past the group in the door, heading for the bathroom.

June watched Clint walk down the hall. "Tommy, sweetie, go ask Daddy to put on some cartoons before he starts killing the turkey." She turned to Delores and Coulson. "Start talking. There's something going on with that man, and while he's damn good with the kids and they all loved him at first sight, I, for one, would like to know just what exactly the deal is."

"June, honey, there's a level of trust involved that means unless he tells you himself, I'm not saying anything." Delores shook her head. "I'm sorry. But believe me, I wouldn't have asked if I had any doubts about the safety of you and your family. This is something that he needed, though."

"Sir, how much am I allowed to tell?" Clint's voice made them jump. "Because I'm actually having fun here, and I don't want to screw it all up because June's worried and stressed out. Or Dave." He slipped past them into the room, going over to his bag and starting to put everything away. "Even if I still kinda want to be back home, fixing my stuff. Had another couple ideas."

Coulson followed Clint over, sitting down and helping clean up. "Tell her what you want, just remember security. I'm glad you're having fun, and write down your ideas."

"Thanks." Clint shifted around, looking at June and Delores. "Might as well come on in. I know that Delores knows some of this, but I don't know how much. Coulson knows all this stuff."

"Clint, you are one of the most surprising people I know, so I doubt that." Coulson shook his head. "And one of the most frustrating."

"Aw, boss. Didn't know you cared." Clint shot back. "Good training for _you_." Seeing that June and Delores had sat down on the couch, he moved to sit on the floor in front of them. "June, ask away. I don't know if I _want_ to answer everything, but there's some stuff that I'm okay with talking about."

"How old are you?" June decided to start out simple.

"Twenty-one." Clint gave her a small smile. "But if you listen to Coulson, going on teenager. Sometimes three. And shut up, Coulson, this is my show now. Only say something if I'm gonna say something I shouldn't."

"Although right now he's sounding much older than he normally does, June, but he does bounce around a bit, like I told you." Delores smiled brightly at the look Clint gave her. "That's a good thing, dear. Think about how you were when you first were hired."

"Whatever." Clint snorted. "June?"

June had trouble understanding. "Why are you here?"

"Here? Your house?" Clint watched June nod. "I only know what Coulson told me, because he's a devious ba...person." He caught himself with an effort. "He said I needed to see what a stable family looked like from the inside." He bit his lip, feeling slightly unsure about how to continue. "I...kinda didn't have one. Family, I mean. And even when my parents were alive, they didn't really pay much attention to me'n my brother."

June suddenly understood why she'd been warned about how Clint could bounce between extremes at the drop of a hat. Standing up, she knelt down in front of him. "Phil, you're an evil, evil man, to drop the poor boy in this chaos without any warning to him whatsoever." She reached out, pulling Clint into a hug. "_Relax_, Clint. Hugs are supposed to be nice things."

As soon as June wrapped her arms around him, Clint tensed up. "Just...never really got them?" He tried to force himself to relax, telling himself that this wasn't an attack, and he could really stop breathing so quickly.

"What is it," Delores asked as she watched her daughter, "that makes people want to mother him?" She glanced over. "Even you, Phil."

"Because he's trying to be an adult, and be strong, and I really don't know _what_ it is about him." June hadn't let go of Clint. "And he looks so _innocent_."

"June, let go of Clint, please," Coulson spoke up. "He's about to pass out. And I don't 'mother' him, Delores."

"Oh!" June quickly moved back, sitting back on the couch. "I'm sorry, Clint."

"That's...that's okay." Clint nodded. "It's a little weird, but it's kinda...nice?" He shrugged. "I think?"

Julia took that moment to wake up. Pushing herself up, she looked around the room. "Mama!" She squealed. "No!" She waved at Clint, who smiled at her.

"No! Yourself!" Standing, he picked her up. "C'mon, miss no. Your mom probably needs to interrogate Coulson and your grandma for a bit; lets go find your dad." Carrying Julia, he walked out of the room.

"Kids, okay, adults, not so much." Delores nodded. "You thinking what I'm thinking, Phil?"

"Probably not. Kids aren't threatening, kids are expected to be tactile, and Clint's more comfortable on their level than he is on ours." Coulson stood up. "I'd suggest hiding the camera before Clint realizes that we took pictures."


	17. Chapter 17

Clint gets to surprise Coulson, gets a talking to.

* * *

June had taken pity on Clint and rescued him from the crowd that was starting to gather to watch the parade, asking him for some help in the kitchen. Laughing, she waved off other offers of assistance, firmly closing the door and shutting out the rest of the house.

"Too much?" Coulson was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.

"A little." June didn't give Clint a chance to respond. "Clint, putting you to work now." She pulled out a bag of potatoes and a bag of apples and started to dig in a drawer. "Potatoes or apples? Phil, you can help too." She pulled out a vegetable peeler, then started to look back in the drawer. "I think I've got a second one in here someplace..."

Clint pulled out an apple, taking a bite. "I can use a knife. Be easier, anyways."

"Excellent!" June gave Clint a big smile. "So all this can go onto the table, give you two some space to work."

"Report." Coulson didn't look at Clint. "Think you're getting an idea of what I want you to pick up?"

"Yeah, a little, I think, but it's only been a day." Clint was focused on peeling apples. "It's just...weird, I guess. Although playing with the kids is fun."

"They do seem to like you," Coulson observed. "And you seem to be pretty comfortable with them, too. Why do you think that is?"

"Dunno," Clint shrugged. "They're not expecting anything. They're simple and easy to figure out. I don't have to pretend to be something that I'm not."

"How much are you doing that?" Coulson didn't reveal his slight alarm. He didn't want Clint to feel that he had to put on an act unless he was going undercover; SHIELD was supposed to be a safe place.

"More than you'd like, obviously." Clint snorted softly. "It's hard, because I still don't know _how_ I'm supposed to be at...at home, and it's easiest to just act like people want me to act, because I still don't feel like I can trust them all. Could've sworn I told you this a few weeks ago, too. I did, because you told me not to pull that with you."

"I see. I thought that was just with Paul's team."

"Look, Coulson. I don't _like_ crowds. I don't _like_ being around people all the time, it's stressful and puts me on edge. I'm happiest hanging out someplace where I can watch whatever's going on and not be expected to be involved. Where do you think I slept at the circus?"

"Wherever you could find a spot." Coulson knew that much.

"Wherever I could find a spot _up high_. My spot at Coney Island, for example, was that platform at the top of the tent; I'd just clip on a safety line so that I didn't fall off in my sleep, and anything that I didn't want to risk getting stolen I'd keep with me. Being high meant I was safe and _alone_. Hard to be alone these days." Clint glanced around, seeing June busy at the stove. "Folks in Juvie said that I was a total introvert, or really close to one, and that they'd work with me on finding alternatives to getting in all those fights so that I'd get left the hell alone, but they never did. All they did was talk at me, saying that I needed to deal, but my dealing with it was staying in my room as much as I could and they kept on dragging me out to go to those damn classes and group sessions. Hated _those_, too. And I always ended up with the bottom bunk." His hand tightened around the knife. Suddenly putting it down, Clint stood up. "I'm going outside."

June watched Clint as he quietly slipped outside. Picking up a cutting board, she sat down in Clint's seat and started to cut up apples. "Juvie, Phil? Fighting?"

"Ironically enough, it was because he was trying to make his life better, June. He told somebody no and ended up caught. He's had a tough life, and only in the past seven, eight months has it improved. Besides," Coulson shook his head with a small smile, "he's too scared of the consequences to act up here."

"What about his home life?" That was the biggest thing that June was curious about. "Because, Phil, he said this morning that he didn't have a stable one. Was the boy abused?"

"He had two _very_ neglectful parents, June, who died when he was five."

"And that's enough of that, Coulson." Clint had come back inside, unnoticed. "Don't _ever_ tell people this stuff again without my permission or unless it's totally required for work." He sat back down at the table. "June, finish asking your questions. If you've got another knife, I'll keep on working, otherwise I'll end up pissing Coulson off and I'm not allowed to." His tone was faintly mocking.

Silently, June handed over the knife and watched as Clint started peeling potatoes, before standing up and getting out another knife. Sitting back down, she went back to cutting up apples. "How long were you on your own, before getting hired to work with my mother and Phil?"

"About fifteen, no, sixteen years. Last six I spent without my brother. He's dead, don't feel bad. I don't."

"I...see." June had stopped working, and was just staring at Clint and Coulson. "So you're really here because?"

"Said this morning. I don't lie to people I like unless I have to. I haven't lied to you about _anything_." Clint glanced over at June, hurt clear in his eyes. "Anything else?"

"I...no." June sighed. "I just wish that I'd know some of this earlier, because I'd've kicked the twins out of their room and let you have it, instead of making you sleep on the couch." Acting on an impulse, she stood up and moved around to give Clint a hug. "And I was told that you'll be here for another few days, so I'm going to treat you like one of my own, understand? And you're invited for Christmas, too."

"Yes ma'am," Clint mumbled, feeling his face get hot. At least this time he hadn't tensed up. Shooting a glare at Coulson, he continued, "this is all your fault, Coulson. The past two _weeks_ have been all your fault."

"Good training." Coulson replied, watching June and Clint. "Although I don't claim any responsibility for what happened with those arrows."

"They weren't arrows," Clint grumbled as June released him and headed back to the stove. "They were pointed sticks of _dynamite_. I'm just lucky that I didn't lose a hand. Stark tech my a..._foot_."

"Phil Coulson!" June hadn't stopped listening. "Explosives? What do you people _do_?"

"Clint and I? Security." Coulson responded. "There are a few researchers there who discovered Clint's hobby and decided that playing with some arrows might be fun. Unfortunately, they didn't do their research enough."

"Somebody's in trou-ble," Clint sang under his breath. At Coulson's and June's looks, he just grinned. "I'm _the_ best with a bow, was actually working in the circus." He paused as the door opened, and Delores came through holding Julia.

"June, dear, your youngest was throwing a tantrum, but doesn't want a nap. And your brother is here, _please_ don't say anything about his latest tattoo. Dave's already told the twins that they're not allowed anything until they're at _least_ thirty-five or over his dead body, whichever comes last. The turkey smells heavenly." She struggled slightly as Julia twisted in her arms, finally putting the toddler down on the floor. "Clint, how are you doing?"

"Okay. June's good at finding stuff out, by the way." Clint moved over and picked up Julia. "Hi, no." He smiled as she reached out and patted his face, yawning. "Really? I'm that boring? Guess I'll have to try harder, then." He made a face, grinning at her laugh. "How about this, you and me? Run away, join the circus, get away from all these _adults_. Have an idea for a _great_ little act..." he kept talking, sitting down in the corner and leaning against the wall.

"So, Phil, this going the way you hoped it would?" Delores asked.

"Mostly, I think." Coulson was watching Clint out of the corner of his eye. "I hope. Although if anything is true, this is fun to watch." He heard a muffled snort of laughter when he reached out for something else to peel, only to discover that they'd worked through it all. "Glad to amuse you, Barton."

"Only you, boss." Clint carefully adjusted the now sleeping toddler, walking back over to the table. "Um, June?"

"Of course. Want to carry her upstairs for me?" June ushered Clint out of the room.

* * *

Clint made sure to sit at the corner of the table, with Coulson between him and everybody else, and Delores across from him. June's brother, some biker guy named Nick, took the very end, but that was okay, since Nick didn't seem to want to say much. Clint guessed it was all the tattoos, and the way that June kept on sending glares at him.

"No, you may not get a tattoo. You even signed papers saying that you wouldn't get any abnormal piercings – which, for you, would be anything – tattoos, or any other form of body modification not otherwise expressly ordered or given permission for." Coulson didn't look at Clint, speaking in a low tone.

"Wasn't going to ask about _that_," Clint retorted, ignoring the warning glances from Delores, Coulson, _and_ June. They'd just have to deal. "Hey, Nick. What's the story behind that one?" He pointed to an abstract design on Nick's forearm. The looks he got from Delores and Nick almost made the previous glares worth it.

As soon as he could, Clint retreated from the table. He refused to call it an escape. "Going for a walk, wanna come?" He muttered to Coulson. When his handler shook his head, Clint shrugged. "Okay. Can I have the car keys, then?"

Coulson frowned, then stood up. Following Clint into the hall, he pulled the keys out of his pocket. "Why?"

"Cause I'm feeling even _more_ on edge and I don't want to walk around without at least a knife if I'm by myself." Clint shook his head. "Although it could just be because of the whole crowd, thing, whatever," he waved his hand around, "it's always better safe than sorry, yeah?"

"As long as you remember that they're not to come inside, be back in an hour." Coulson passed Clint the keys.

"And?" Coulson glanced at Clint when he returned. "Any problems?"

"Just a yappy dog." Clint felt a little calmer. "And a baseball that was going straight for my head. Isn't it supposed to be football at Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah. Game's on right now, if you're interested." Nick had been waiting in the hall. "If you're not interested, you'd asked about my bike. June's distracted, we can slip out and I can show you it now."

"Sweet." Clint grinned. "And yeah, Coulson, I put everything away." He followed Nick out the front door, tossing the car keys to Coulson.

"Nicholas Smith!" June's voice rang out across the front yard as she hurried over. "What have I told you about your bike and my family?"

Nick grinned, lightly hitting Clint's shoulder. "Family?"

"They all want to _mother_ me. It's _freaky_." Clint shook his head. "I asked, June!" He called out, hoping to head off any fights.

"Still, he should know better. Dessert's ready. Both of you, go wash your hands!"

* * *

Clint dragged Delores outside as soon as he could. "Help," was all he said, moving to the swingset.

"Help? With what?" Delores sat down on another swing with a sigh. "And nice haircut, by the way."

"Thanks. It's better for blending in," Clint said absentmindedly, suddenly refocusing on why he'd wanted to talk to Delores. "And I finally realized the other day that he's acting all _paternal_ and damn near everybody I've been meeting decides that they need to take care of me and how can I get it to _stop_?" He could see Delores trying not to laugh. "It's not funny."

Swallowing her laugh, Delores shook her head. "Oh, it is, actually. Phil is saying that he doesn't know how to treat you, you're saying that it's everybody acting like that and you want it to stop, and you're _both_ looking for advice from me."

"I don't really mind Coulson, much, even if it's a little weird." Clint said, staring at the ground. "'Cause I was able to figure out that yeah, he's trying to balance it all and he's probably having even _more_ trouble than I am." He shot Delores a sly smile. "It's good for him, and I'm finding that I kinda like it. He's...stable, I guess, and I know that he's not going to abuse his power. It's everybody _else_ that seems to think that I need taking care of that's the problem."

"June said it best this morning. You're still growing up, Clint, and you pull off the innocent look far too well for somebody with your background."

"Hey, it worked. Only got sent to trial once. And even then, the judge and prosecutor were nice." Clint glanced at the house. "Still, how can I get them to _stop_?"

"I don't think you can." Delores thought for a moment. "And you're giving off some cues that you do need a good mothering every once in a while. This morning? You sounded incredibly lost, Clint, which is probably what triggered June to say and do what she did. So, Agent Barton, use your brain and go over the interactions you've had with people today and their responses."

"Ma'am," Clint nodded, sitting up as straight as he could, responding to her tone. "This morning...June. I didn't know what to say to answer her questions, so I did the best I could. She hugged me." He gave her a narrow glare. "And that wasn't very nice of you three, I'm just going on record with that. Destroy the pictures and the negatives."

"Agent Barton, I don't think I asked you about that." Delores just gave him a glare back. "Continuing on."

"Yes, ma'am. Nothing else that was significant until June had me working in the kitchen, didn't really interact with the rest of the guests." Clint scowled. "Coulson was sharing too much. We'd been talking about how it's been going here over the past day and a half, he was asking if I was picking up what I needed to. I told him a few things that I don't think he really liked hearing, but tough shit, and don't look at me like that, I've been watching my damn language ever since I walked through the front door and there aren't any kids out here. But yeah. Few bad memories came up, and I came out here to cool off. Got back inside to hear Coulson call my parents neglectful, which, yeah, pissed me off all over again. Not because he was badmouthing them, he can do that as much as he wants, but because he was telling June."

"Very well. What did she do?"

"After I snapped at Coulson? Not much. She asked another couple questions and gave me _another _hug, which I'm still not sure if I like or not. Said that had she actually known, she'd've given me the twins' room, instead of making me sleep on the couch. Then she said that she was going to treat me like one of her own and that we're invited for Christmas, too. Sounded a little upset about how R and D fucked up some arrows."

"Knowing my daughter, I'm not surprised." Delores nodded. "And what about with Nick, Agent Barton? It didn't look like he was treating you like a child, and I know that he can be just as bad as, if not worse than, his sister."

"Nick." Clint thought for a second. "I asked questions about his tattoos. I asked questions about his bike. I should probably tell Coulson that no, I don't want one, it was a way to get out of the house but not go as far as I did on the walk I took."

"And thinking it all through, Agent Barton, what were the differences between my two offspring?"

Clint sighed, leaning back to stare at the night sky. "I don't know." He could hear the slight bite to his words.

"Very well then, Agent, here's your gimme answer. With June, whenever you sounded like a child, she treated you like a child. With Nick, you were respectful and sounded like you were actually an adult. I suspect that it's the same with everybody else. The way you look, that can't be helped. You could try to dress less like a refugee from the circus and more like a paid government employee, however." She gave him a look. "SHIELD t-shirts are acceptable to sleep in and to exercise in, they are not acceptable daily wear unless they are being worn under your uniform."

"Ma'am." Clint nodded. "Think you could help me out with that, too, then? Not going to look like Coulson, though, which is why I'm _not_ going to ask him."

"_Only_ Phil can pull off wearing a suit and taking out half a dozen men, then go to a State Department meeting with nobody the wiser." Delores smiled at Clint's look. "Ah, guess you didn't know that, did you? No, I suspect that you'll be the most comfortable in your uniform. We'll figure something out, however, brave the stores tomorrow. Now, Agent Barton, with your one gimme answer, what can you do?"

"I can try to sound less like a little kid." Clint shook his head at how simple the answer was. "Was I being stupid again?"

"Oh, very." Delores sounded cheerful. "But you're still young enough that it's to be expected. I'm also going to throw something else out at you. How old do you think Phil is?"

"Dunno. Forty-five? Fifty?"

"You'll have to work better on observing people. What if I told you that he's in his thirties? A lot younger than you thought, right?"

"He sure doesn't act it, though. Is that also part of what you meant, by not acting like a little kid?"

"Exactly. So, he acts much older than he is, and people treat him like he's acting. And now, Clint, what have I told you about calling me ma'am?"

"And what sort of response should I give you when you're acting all official and calling me Agent?" Clint shot back, feeling on level ground again. "Because you are technically my superior, too, just not in the same direct chain of command. According to all the orientation stuff, you tell me to jump, I have to ask how high."

"I can't believe you read all that." Delores shook her head in amusement. "Let's head back inside; it's getting cold, I need to tease Phil, and you can watch."

"I was bored. And a bored Clint is an annoying Clint, or so it's been said."

* * *

"He's figured it out, Phil. And what is this about not telling him all about _your_ rather impressive background?" Delores lightly poked Coulson in the arm as she sat down next to him on the couch, Clint heading straight for the kids on the floor. She watched as he picked up a crayon and started sketching some arrows and a couple bows.

"I've decided it's need-to-know, and nobody needs to know." Coulson watched Clint, as well. "Clint, those your new ideas?"

"Yeah, some of them." Clint nodded. "Hey, what did you have planned for tomorrow, sir?"

"Whatever June and Dave had planned, although if you had any ideas, they are most certainly welcome."

"Delores said that she'd go shopping with me." Clint didn't look away from the paper he was drawing on. "Help me find some decent clothing."

"We do normally go visit the mall, just because all the Christmas things are out, and the kids visit Santa." June was curled up against Dave, reading a book as he flipped through a medical journal. "If you two would like to come along, we've got space in the van." She gave an amused glare at her husband. "_Somebody_ has to go into work tomorrow."

"Well, if you want to brave the crowds, Clint, shouldn't be a problem. Maybe you can actually find something that doesn't make you look like you came from the circus."

"Aww, boss, didn't know you cared." Clint grinned at his paper, not seeing the looks of awe that he was getting from the twins. "Might not be tons of _fun_, but it'll be good for you."

"You were in the circus?" One of the twins – Clint couldn't figure out which one it was – asked. "Seriously? That is so cool!"

As he was bombarded with questions, Clint just shot a narrow glare at Coulson. "Je _te deteste, _tu, tu, _salaud_." He hissed, before taking a breath and starting to answer the questions.

Coulson grinned. At least some of the French was sticking. He did wonder where Clint had found the curse word, though.

* * *

Clint decided that Delores needed to be elevated to SHIELD sainthood, as he followed her through the mall. Sure, she bullied him into getting more than he thought he needed, but she'd walk into a store, glance around, and either drag Clint further in or turn around and leave. His only objection was when she decided that he needed nice clothes.

"Clint," she started, as Coulson moved to block his retreat to find June and the kids, "it won't bite, and it's a hell of a lot more comfortable than how it looks. Just a couple shirts. I did promise that you wouldn't have to go around looking like Phil."

"Thank you, Delores." Coulson didn't bother hiding his sarcasm. He grabbed Clint's collar, preventing Clint from moving away any more. "Three ways that looking like a professional would be a good thing, Barton."

Clint just made a face. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'm choosing, though."

"Only if we approve."

They met up with June at the food court, and after seeing the crowds and the level of tension that was ratcheting up in various members of the group, decided to simply leave. Back at the house, Clint carelessly shoved his new clothes into his bag, before joining everybody else.

"Sir, what's the plan for after this?" Clint was sitting on the floor, drawing again. Coulson peered over his shoulder and saw rough outlines for a bow. Folding, which was interesting. Two pagers went off then, shrill in the mostly silent room, and making Clint jump. "Huh?"

"Delores?" Coulson glanced at his pager.

"Santos. You?"

"Fury. Clint, you'll need to come with us." Coulson looked at June. "June, I'm terribly sorry about this. Do you have a phone that we could use?"

"June, honey, it's one of _those_ things." Delores gave June a look.

"Gotcha, mom." June nodded. "There's a phone in Clint's room. If you want a speakerphone, that's in the kitchen."

"Clint, go get the phone from the kitchen and meet us in your room." Coulson ordered. Curious, Clint hurried to obey.

"Sir, we're significantly less than secure here, and you're on speakerphone." Coulson glanced around the room.

"Can't be helped. Need you and Barton, there's a problem. How long?"

"Depends. If we're driving, tomorrow. If you can clear a jet to come get us, however long it'll take to get here; there's an airport about twenty minutes away."

"Santos. Forty minutes, Coulson. Tell your problem child to get ready, he's going to have to work again."

Coulson frowned. "Sir, he's half-trained, _barely_ dialed in on a rifle, and needs about six more months of hard-core work to be at a basic level. I'm saying that even though he's gone out twice now, he's not ready. Barton, not a word."

"Coulson. Two stations in Central America went dark in less than an hour. We need both of you. So pack up your things, and get your asses to the airport. And that's an order. Out." The click of the phone had Coulson shaking his head.

"I'll go say goodbye." Clint picked up his bag.

"Uniform first, Clint, because we're just going to get thrown into it all as soon as we set foot in the jet." Coulson tossed Clint the car keys. "And bring in our weapons, we're going to take some time and make sure that they're okay after sitting in the car. Sorry, Delores, I know that June doesn't want them in the house, but the only other option is to scare the neighbors and work in the front yard. If anything's wrong, I want to be able to call and get replacements on the way first."

"She'll survive, especially once she gets the kids out of the way." Delores watched as Clint headed for the door. "I'll go break the bad news; it'll be better coming from me."

Clint ran back inside, passing the bag with their weapons off to Coulson before quickly changing. Bouncing lightly to make sure that everything was secure, he grabbed his stuff and headed for the kitchen, where he could hear June yelling.

"Mother, I have those rules for a reason. I don't _care_ that they're both highly trained professionals, guns and kids just don't go together in the same house!"

"Hey, June?" Clint stepped in between the two women, seeing Coulson sitting at the table already. "We're super sorry about this, but it's a super-big work emergency, if nobody's told you that yet. As in, divert a plane to come and pick us up." An idea came to him, and he pulled out an expression that he knew had worked earlier, widening his eyes and biting at his lip. "Could I maybe say bye to the kids before I have to start checking my stuff over?" He ignored Coulson's cough, knowing that it was covering laughter.

"Of course, Clint." June nodded, turning for the door. "Mother, this isn't over!" She gave Clint a fast once-over. "Please don't encourage my children to go into law enforcement, however." Eying his thigh holster, she continued, "they'll find you even more fascinating, once they see you looking like somebody on TV."

Clint crouched down as the kids asked him questions, coming up with a few fast lies that shouldn't get anybody in trouble. "Hey hey hey, ask your grandma later. Just wanted to say bye, me 'n Mr. Coulson have to go back to work now. One of my friends got sick, and we need to go take over for him." He made a face. "I get to sit at a desk for _hours_. Sometimes I get to walk around the building, but it's _boring_." He grinned at the twins. "And I have to do _way_ more homework than you guys do, it's like I just sit at my desk at work or my desk at home allll the time. _Never_ get to play with the Legos or the Nintendo." He reached out, ruffling Tommy's hair and lightly tapping Julia on the nose, making both of them laugh. "See ya."

* * *

In the car, Clint let out a laugh. "I have turned my nefarious powers to good, boss. I did like the look on June's face when I started pulling out my knives, though. And then my bow. Don't think she really realized _why_ I was bitching about those arrows until she saw it." He glanced out the window. "Pull over and let me drive, 'cause you're driving too slow. We're running late, and the sooner we can get this done, the sooner you can quit being pissed off at Fury, who, yes, is a one-eyed manipulative bastard of questionable parentage even though his coat is fucking _awesome_, although I don't think I could pull it off." Surprised, he watched as Coulson pulled over to the side of the road.

"Barton, you just keep on surprising me. Don't get us pulled over." Coulson waiting until Clint had started driving, paying little attention to the speed limit. "Good job on distracting June, though. How did you know which of her buttons to push?"

"Delores pointed it out to me. I act like a kid, I get treated like a kid. She responded really well to me being nervous and kinda unsure about stuff, so I just pulled that out again. Same with the kids." Clint slowed down slightly, passing a police car, then sped up again. He looked over at Coulson. "So, six guys and then a meeting?"

"Eyes on the road. I had a gun, they were trying to rob a bank. I just needed to cash a check. It sounds much more impressive than it really was. And the meeting wasn't anything important, just working out some details for another meeting." Coulson frowned. "Didn't I say eyes on the road, Barton?"

"Yeah. But going on the record to say that you're _totally_ badass in my head now." Clint refocused on the road. "So what's up with all this?"

"You heard what Fury said. Two stations went dark in the span of about an hour, hour and a half. Protocol for that is to get as many people as is possible to other SHIELD facilities in the area for security, and get some people heading into the base that went dark to try and find out what happened. It's quite possible that a couple power stations just went out and their back-up generators didn't work, but having the same thing happen to two stations suggests something else."

"Dark?" Clint didn't understand the term.

"Loss of all contact. Turn right at the next light." Coulson braced himself as Clint took the turn. "Driving lessons, too, Barton. Don't let me forget that."

Clint spotted the airport and the outline of a Quinjet in the air. "They're not on the ground yet. And I can drive just _fine_. We were just running late and you were driving like you'd expect some _old_ person to drive."


	18. Chapter 18

The scientists were sorry. Quite a bit of whump.

* * *

Climbing into the jet, Clint watched as Coulson sat down at the radio, before going up to the pilots. "Where're we going?"

"LA, then Mexico City." One of the pilots glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the rear door had shut. "Might want to sit down and buckle up, we're going to be punching it. And, here." He handed over a file folder. "Told to give this to you two."

"Thanks," Clint tossed the folder onto Coulson's lap, sitting down as the jet took off. He could tell when the afterburners kicked in; only the fact that he'd followed their advice and used the safety straps kept him in his seat. Once he felt that he'd be able to keep his balance, he went back up to the front. "How long?"

"About twenty minutes. However long to get all this crap off and all the new stuff on and refuel, then probably another hour or so to Mexico City. After that, damned if I know, I just deliver the mail."

"Thanks." Clint turned around and went back to his seat.

"Clint." Coulson turned to look at Clint. "Odds are, you're going to be killing again. Problem with that?"

"Maybe?" Clint shifted, trying to get comfortable. "Dunno, it's kinda easier to think about this sort of thing when I'm part of a _group_, not by myself, 'cause then it's just...follow the leader, and I'm not the leader. And I've been thinking about that a lot."

"Interesting, but I can understand." Coulson nodded. "Next question. Since we still don't know what's going on, I can't say what you're going to be asked to do, but I do know that I will not be there to hold your hand every step of the way. Will you be able to follow the orders of whoever you're assigned to work with?"

"As long as they're not _stupid_, will try." Clint started fidgeting with his bow. "And that's all I can say." He perked up slightly. "Hey, if I'm good, I get a cookie?"

"We'll see." Coulson turned back to the radio.

As soon as the jet touched down in LA, Clint moved to help unload the cargo, not looking at the rest of the men who were busy doing the same. Once everything had been offloaded, and even more piled in the back of the jet, he returned to his seat.

"Barton," Clint turned, seeing Paul sit down next to him. "Didn't recognize you there. Coulson, what's going on?"

"All that I've been told is that the research stations in Baja California Sur – that's in Mexico, Clint – and Guatemala went dark; both of them sent out emergency signals and a voice report of something mechanical. You have anybody there?"

"Rabbit and Max were pulling some overtime in Baja, although they were probably just saying that so that they could go to the beach." Paul frowned. "Bill was home in Virginia and Radar was doing some holiday time on the Helicarrier; they're heading to Mexico right now. So, it's sounding like AIM?"

"Maybe HYDRA, as well, but nobody's quite sure. Clint, I'm assigning you to work with Paul, since you've worked with his team before. Please don't die, I don't want to deal with the paperwork."

"Thanks, boss." Clint rolled his eyes. "I'll try not to be that much of a pain in the ass." He turned to Paul. "Bow or gun?"

"Wait until we get an assignment, then we'll figure it all out." Paul's worry was clear in his eyes. "Right now, though, I'm hoping that we can use you up high, so it'd be whatever you want. You done SERE yet?"

"SERE?" The word was familiar, but Clint couldn't think of what it was.

"Obviously not. Coulson, what the _hell_ are you teaching this kid. Before he goes out with my team again, I want him to get all the needed training. SERE's top of that list, with my bunch's track record."

"Wasn't as important as some other things like getting him _housebroken_, it's on the damn list. Clint, SERE stands for survive, evade, resist, escape. In the remote scenario you get caught, obey orders you're given, try not to say anything other than your name, that you're a SHIELD agent, and things that can be gotten by the general public, and for the love of God, do _not_ piss anybody off, because it'll just hurt more and it just increases the risk of you getting killed. Escaping is always good, but only if you _know_ that you can get out. Biggest thing is to not get caught, however. There Paul, happy? Still working on getting him incorporated into the Army, but as soon as that's done, he's heading off for one hell of a lot of training that we don't give."

Paul snorted. "Good enough for now. Barton, more things, so listen good. No heroics, I've probably lost two men today and I don't want to lose any more to this clusterfuck. You see anything, speak up, but no idle chatter. As of right now we're going in completely blind, so I'm going to call you team shooter and spotter; that'll probably change. Questions?"

"No, sir." Clint was starting to feel shaken. That was something else that he was realizing that he hadn't thought of; he could get hurt. The undertone of stress he could hear in Coulson's voice didn't help.

"Clint," Coulson looked over at him. "Trust me. Anything happens, we'll come after you. There are trackers in your weapons, and very little can block them. Understand?"

"Yeah." Clint forced himself to relax, hearing the unspoken words that _Coulson_ wouldn't let anything happen if at all possible. "You do that for everybody?"

"Yes. Trackers are easy enough to slip into weapons and are cheap enough. I'm pulling for getting them implanted into clothing, too, if not people themselves, but that's a bit harder since people seem to have issues with having that sort of thing stuck in them." Coulson held one hand up, pressing the headset against his ear. "Copy. We're landing shortly." He spun in his chair to look at Paul. "Okay. More information. Rabbit was was able to get out; he's getting treated right now, sounds like his leg got pretty torn up. Mexico City was easiest so that's where he's at, you'll be able to check on him in person. Joint HYDRA-AIM attack; AIM has some new mechanical deal that he wasn't quite sure about. Sounds like they're sticking with holding onto the two stations for now, but can't be sure. They came in fast and heavy, knew just where to hit; we're going to have to track down a leak after this."

Paul leaned back in his seat, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "Okay. Could always be worse. Barton, you're going to stick to me like damn glue, understand? First thing, we're going to check in on Rabbit, then we're going to give these guys hell."

"Yeah." Clint nodded, feeling the jet land. Slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder, he stood up. "Glue. Hell. Gotcha."

Paul ignored everybody as he pushed his way through the crowd towards a building, Clint obediently following. "Bill, Radar. You seen Rabbit yet?"

"No." Bill was visibly upset. "He's still in surgery. What's going on?"

"Somebody talked, and HYDRA teamed up with AIM. We've got Barton again, so there'll at least be four of us. You and Radar, me and Barton. Don't split up."

"Heya," Bill looked over Paul's shoulder at Clint. "Hell of a way to meet up again."

"Yeah." Clint dragged out a bright smile. "Happy Thanksgiving?"

Bill laughed, a sharp bark that was quickly cut off. "It was."

"Okay. Going to go see if I can find out what's going on with Rabbit. All of you, come on." Paul glanced around the room, then headed for somebody in scrubs. "Hey. Agent Greeves. My guy's in surgery right now, what's the story?"

"Johnson?" The woman looked up. "They just finished. I'll take you back there, but he's still asleep and he's also being kept sedated for now. Lucky for us, not so lucky for him, he refused to let us do anything until he got all the information out."

"His leg?"

"Gone." The woman shook her head. "Had we gotten him in sooner, there might have been a chance, but..." she trailed off. "Too much damage done; it was his leg or his life."

"We can use him with one leg, dead, not so much." Clint thought Paul sounded cold as he peered through a door. "Okay. I'm happy to see that he's alive, so let's go, gentlemen. We've got shit to do, and moping around isn't on that list."

"Hey." Radar spoke up for the first time since Paul and Clint had arrived. "Almost forgot. Barton, they sent along a box for you, something about an apology." He pulled a small box out of his pocket. "And that they're really sorry, please don't kill them if these don't work."

Curious, Clint opened the box. "Shit!" He swore, as an arrowhead fell out, cutting his finger. "That's sharp." Sucking at the cut, he knelt down to pick up the arrowhead. Looking at it, he nodded. "Didn't fuck this one up, so far."

"Why would you kill them?" Bill peered over Clint's shoulder.

"They tried to make some arrows with explosives, which damn near took my hand off." Clint shook his head, pulling an arrow out of his quiver. "They didn't do their research right. Here, hold this." He passed the box over to Bill, and started to swap out arrowheads. The scientists must have gotten one of his, because the only difference between the new one and the ones he had was the color of the metal and how sharp it was; he'd bet that they'd been so worried about making sure it all worked that they'd even matched the weight.

"Would hate to be in their shoes," Paul observed, leading them to where Clint could see a bunch of people in suits gathering around a table. "Okay you three, wait here and _do not move_ until I get back, I need to find out what we're doing. I don't see us going anywhere until tomorrow, so don't get worked up yet."

* * *

The back of the jet was crowded, and Clint found himself hoping that it wouldn't be a long flight. "So, here's the deal," Paul, and half a dozen other men, were all talking in low tones. "We're heading to Guatemala to retake the station there. I requested it, because frankly, rescuing Max would be too much of a distraction, and I don't want to try and hold you two back if he's hurt." He looked at Bill and Radar. "We're going in the side, from the ground, and we've got to clear to the front, where we'll meet up with the other groups. They managed to pull some more information from the security systems; when I say it's heavy, it's _heavy_. AIM equipped HYDRA with some pretty freaky body armor, so we're looking at head shots, a lot of bullets, or just taking the building down on top of them all, and for a couple small research stations, they sent a hell of a lot of muscle. Fury's orders are that taking the buildings down is only if we're all dead. Barton, you're coming in with us. Order is Radar, Bill, Barton, me, and stay in that order. Barton, you're going to watch right, understand? Doesn't matter if there's a wall, you're responsible for calling out if anything is coming at us from the right that you can't handle. Additionally, for all three of you, don't get shot, understand?" Seeing the nods, he nodded. "Good. And remember, we're just getting rid of the bad guys, other people are responsible for finding and rescuing our people. Radar, flashbangs before going in the rooms. All I can say is, way you shoot, thank _God_ they're not big rooms."

Clint trailed behind Bill, arrow loosely held to the string, as they worked their way up to the building. "Radar," Paul said, and Clint could see out of the corner of his eye as Radar attached explosives to the window frame. "Gamma's ready."

"Copy." Clint relaxed slightly, hearing Coulson's voice on the radio as more teams checked in. "All teams, on my mark. Mark." Clint didn't look at the window, jumping as it disintegrated.

Radar tossed a grenade through the window, waiting until it had gone off before moving inside, Bill following. As Clint stepped through the hole in the wall, he heard shots going off; looking to his right, he quickly drew his bow and shot straight at the face of a man standing there. As they moved through the halls, clearing out rooms, it almost became automatic: aim and fire, aim and fire, check behind any furniture in the room for people, then move on. He could feel his supply of arrows getting low, and thought about shifting over to his handgun. A grunt from Paul's direction had him swinging around.

"_So_ not cool." The words came out before Clint could stop them, and he mentally winced at Paul's slight glare. Cursing from Radar and Bill suggested that they'd also seen what had happened.

"Drop weapons, all of you. On floor." The man had an arm wrapped around Paul's throat, gun pointing at the rest of them, backing for the door.

"Gamma, report." Coulson's voice came over the radio.

"Problem." Radar's voice was curt, as he knelt down on the ground, Bill and Clint slowly following.

"Need help?"

"Negative, repeat negative. Gamma lead is out."

"Copy." Coulson's voice was tense. "How many?"

"Two. At least." Clint could see into the hall, slightly.

"Be quiet." The man holding Paul tightened his grip.

"Okay. We've got you on camera now." Clint relaxed some. "Three total. Barton. Guy holding Paul. Radar, Bill, be ready for the door. Nod to copy." Clint nodded, hands by his side, mentally calculating the shot. "Go."

Clint grabbed at his handgun, hoping that he'd get his shot off first, or that the other guy couldn't aim. He wasn't that lucky; Bill's gasp behind him sounded like the man was in pain. Only halfway watching his target fall, Clint shifted slightly to focus on the doorway, shooting as the men in the hallway started to enter.

"Clear, with injuries." Paul coughed slightly. "Bill?"

"Fucker. Got my arm. I'm good."

"Delta, move over to meet Gamma. Status, all teams." Clint kept his eyes on the door, listening as the rest of the teams checked in. This was...not fun, he decided, hearing injury reports.

"Delta's coming in." Five men that Clint vaguely recognized slipped through the door. "Paul, this is the second time we've had to come after you, you realize."

"And we've come after your clumsy asses three times, so shut it and give me a med kit, I need more bandages." Paul sounded distracted, and Clint looked over, seeing him holding onto Bill's arm. "Bill, I thought I had told you to not get shot."

"Yeah, well, you weren't watching the rear, were you?" Bill snapped, wincing as Paul wrapped his arm up. "Wouldn't've _gotten_ shot if _you_ hadn't been grabbed!"

"Can it, both of you." One of the new men ordered. "Save it for later. How are you on ammo?"

"We're good. Barton?"

Clint picked up his quiver, counting the arrows left. "Depends on how many more there are." He tried to retrieve a couple arrows from bodies, and he frowned when he saw that the arrowheads weren't coming out. "Bastards," he muttered. "_Now_ they're in trouble." He tossed the shafts aside.

"Building is secured." The announcement had everybody in the room sagging slightly. "Injured to the front, everybody else hold tight."

Sitting on a desk, Clint watched as Paul and Bill walked out, arguing, followed by two men from the other team. Glancing over at Radar, he shook his head. The other man had laid down on another desk and appeared to be fast asleep. "Lucky," he muttered.

"Hey, Radar." One of the new men shoved Radar. "No sleeping on the job, lazy ass."

"Fuck off." Radar snapped. "My entire team is _gone_ right now and we're gonna have to replace _at least_ two of them, I'd think I'd deserve a chance to lay the fuck down."

"Bill's arm wasn't that bad," the other man started, "And what about him?" He jerked his thumb at Clint.

"The circus freak isn't on the team, haven't you heard about our new solo guy, or have you been under a damn rock for the past two months?" Radar looked like he was getting even more upset. "And Rabbit lost his fucking _leg_, I _still_ don't know where Max is, and Paul? He got shook _bad_. Bill's just pissed off. He'll be back as soon as he's healed, and we were already running one short."

"Teams alpha, bravo, and echo, set up patrols. All other teams, evac the way you came." The order had Clint jumping up, looking at the other men in the room.

"Our point is probably closer." Radar didn't sound angry anymore, just tired. "You were on the other side of the building, yeah?"

"Next floor up actually, we came in from the roof." The man turned to Clint. "Jim. Sorry, Barton, didn't recognize you and the bow didn't click in my mind until just now."

Clint shrugged. "No biggie." He pulled one of the new arrowheads that R and D had sent him off of an arrow, wanting a closer look now that the stressful part of his weekend was over with.

* * *

The after-action reports all agreed on one thing – the group had been sloppy and not watching out as they moved to their exit, and they probably hadn't made sure that everybody was actually _dead_. Clint just blamed himself for relaxing too much as he felt a hand grab him and a knife land at his throat. He really should have known better, he thought, as he froze at the hissed command. "Crap," was all that he said, as the world seemed to slow down, then speed back up. "You f_uckers_," he continued, as he felt a second pair of hands pull the remaining arrows out of his quiver, take his handgun and knife, and the knife at his neck started to dig in slightly. It was sharp.

"Barton, shut up." Radar ordered, gun up. "Not helping." He took a step forward.

Clint hissed slightly as the knife dug deeper, and he thought he could feel a trickle of blood starting to run down his neck. Over the radio, he could hear people talking, but he was having trouble focusing on those voices as the man holding him started to talk. "You'll let us go, quietly like, understand?" Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw the other man move up, aiming his handgun at Radar, and he started to feel annoyance mix in with the fear. The guy had his _stuff_.

"Can't do that." Radar shook his head, taking another step forward. "Seeing as how you kinda invaded and ended up with half my team gone."

"Radar, _you're_ not helping." Clint gasped out as he was jerked roughly backwards and the hand holding the knife got even stiffer. He could feel the trickle of blood increase to a steady stream. "'Cause this fucking _hurts _and I'd kinda like to keep _breathing, _if you know what I mean."

"Yes, Radar, listen to your teammate." The voice was smooth. Clint wondered how many psych sessions he'd be forced into after this, watching as Jim moved up next to Radar.

"Barton, gotta hand it to you, you've got talent." Jim's voice was tense. "Boss says that nobody's gotten on Radar's nerves this much in _ages_. He did want to point out that you two're starting to sound like a couple of three-year-olds, though, which means no trip to the circus." His gun was up, pointing at the guy who had Clint's things.

Clint suddenly realized that he was still holding onto the arrowhead he'd been looking at earlier, and a calm feeling came over him as he _got_ what Jim was saying and the fact that only a couple of guns were pointed at him. "Me? Never. Radar's the only one sounding like a little kid right now. Think he missed his nap?" He started thinking out the best way to get the knife away from his neck, and shifted the arrowhead around in his hand, bracing his feet. "Besides, the boss _always_ says that."

"Three." came over the radio, and as guns fired, Clint jabbed the arrowhead into the leg of the man holding him, feeling it go through armor and hit flesh. He let training take over, jerking his head to the side as best he could, away from the knife, and he jerked the arrowhead free, aiming for the guy's head, feeling it enter flesh. His other hand reached up for the hand holding the knife against his throat. He was just barely able to grab it as the man went limp.

"Ow." Clint turned around, seeing that he'd managed to hit the guy in the neck. Glancing down at where he'd gotten the guy in the leg, he shook his head. "Guess I don't get to yell at the geeks. Damn. Wonder what the hell that metal is." Feeling at his neck, he groaned. "Coulson isn't going to let me out for _weeks_ now." Looking at his hand, which came away with more blood on it than Clint _ever_ wanted to see, he started to hurt even more. "Please say that one of you has some painkillers."

Radar had come up with a handful of gauze. "Not until after you get checked out," he said, wrapping Clint's neck up. "And fuck you." He jerked a bit harder on the wrap than Clint thought he needed to.

"Whatever." Clint was feeling tired and more than a little shaky. "And thanks," he added as Radar held out his weapons. "Now, before the two of us start smacking each other, can we _leave_ already?"

* * *

Dropping heavily on the ground next to Bill, Clint glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Hi. How's the arm?"

"I've got the okay stuff in me, so it doesn't hurt much." Bill didn't look at Clint. "And you can tell me what the hell just happened, because a couple guys came roaring through here and dragged Paul off a little bit ago." Glaring at a medic that was rushing up, he snapped, "I'm _fine_, asshole. There are people that are hurt worse."

"I'm not here for you, so chill." The medic knelt down in front of Clint. "One to ten, how bad is the pain?"

"Five." Clint winced as the bandages were pulled off and he could feel everything start bleeding again. "Ow. Eight. Do you _mind_?"

"Nope." The medic poked at Clint's neck, before rebandaging it and checking Clint's vitals. "That'll need stitches, but you'll live for now. Don't have anything to eat or drink, not that this stuff'll let you do much other than sleep." Pulling out a syringe, he pushed up Clint's sleeve and gave him a shot. "And don't go anywhere." Slapping a sticker on Clint's chest, the medic hurried off.

"I want a shower. And to sleep for a week. Maybe some ice cream, too." Clint could feel the painkiller start to kick in. "Because today? Really sucked."

"Totally." Bill looked over at Clint. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Guys that were dead weren't." Clint reached up, feeling at the bandage. "And the one with a knife was kinda mad." Peeling off the sticker that the medic had stuck on him, he asked, "what does yellow mean?"

"Means that you're not going to die, but that you need more fixing than somebody with a sprained ankle." Clint found that he couldn't turn his head to look at Coulson. "Barton, what happened?"

"Fucked if I know. Walking down the hall, suddenly I've got a damn knife digging into my neck." Shifting around, Clint looked up as best he could. "And I don't think that I pissed them off. I blame Radar for that one." He tried to cover a yawn and failed.

"There are a lot of questions that need answered about what happened, because it wasn't just your group that got jumped." Coulson's voice was grim, and he rested his hand on Clint's shoulder. With a light squeeze, he continued, "Sticker back on, and take a nap, Clint. You did good."

"'Kay." Clint yawned again, shrugging his quiver off and getting comfortable as best he could. "Thanks, boss."


	19. Chapter 19

Misery. Clint shows that he's learning. Coulson gets confused.

* * *

Clint halfway woke up when the doctor started to stitch his neck, but a firm hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear telling him to stay still and go back to sleep kept him from struggling too much. The next time he woke up, it was to find himself in a room with half a dozen beds in it, each one filled. Not bothering to look for his boots, he headed for where he could see the dim outline of a door, slipping into a hallway.

At some point in time they'd gotten everybody moved into the building, he realized, and Clint followed the sound of voices. Glancing in a couple rooms, he spotted Coulson sitting at a desk and headed over. "Heya, sir."

Coulson glanced up. "Clint." He sounded surprised. "Thought they gave you enough drugs to keep you asleep longer."

"Yeah, well," Clint shrugged. "Guess they didn't work." He scratched at his neck. It was sore, and the bandage itched. "So?"

"So?" Coulson leaned back in his chair. "Grab a chair, you can answer a couple questions and start your report."

"You suck," Clint grumbled as he obeyed. "How is everybody?"

"Paul is incredibly pissed off at you, and everybody in general, actually. The Baja station was retaken, and all hostages rescued; they were a little beat up, but they'll be fine. We did lose a few men, unfortunately, but probably nobody you knew." Coulson flipped through a small notebook, stopping at a blank page.

"Why is he pissed off at _me_?" Clint felt confused. "I mean, this was the first time I've had to do something like this! It wasn't like _he_ ended up hurt!"

"He's probably projecting, is all. It was his job to watch your backs as well as make sure that everybody was dead; to have missed two that then caused harm to the rookie is the sort of thing that would probably upset him. It would mess anybody up."

Clint started to shake his head, then stopped with a hiss. "Ow. That hurt. I don't know if those last two were actually there when we were going through. We checked everything really well. I think."

Coulson nodded, tossing a pill bottle at Clint. "Here. Take one."

"Can I take the bandage off?" Clint suspected that was the biggest problem, not the stitches. He fidgeted with the pill bottle.

Coulson glanced at his watch. "Not until the doctor says you can. And before you ask, twelve stitches. Now, tell me what happened in there, starting with when you were given the entry order."

Clint took a breath and started talking, watching as Coulson took notes. When he got to the point where Paul had been grabbed, Coulson's note taking increased. "And wouldn't it be easier to just have a tape recorder, Coulson?"

"There will be, at the next one." Coulson nodded. "So, you got the guy holding Paul – nice shot, by the way – and immediately shifted to watch the door?"

"Yeah. I don't know why, but it seemed like the right thing to do."

"It was. And then?"

Clint sighed. "And then I was being lazy and wasn't keeping an eye out. Crappy situational awareness, I _know_, sir. And then I was focused on the fact that I had a knife digging into my neck and I was _bleeding_ and I was getting kinda pissed off at Radar, so I didn't listen to the radio."

"Okay." Coulson's expression didn't change as he continued taking notes. "How did you figure out what to do?"

"Because only you, boss, would call me a three-year-old." Clint snapped. "Thanks for that, by the way. _Just_ what the entire fucking _world_ needed to hear."

"I'm going to ignore the tone of your voice." Coulson didn't look at Clint. "How did you know that you'd have to get yourself out?"

"No way in hell that I was going to trust any of those jackasses to not hit _me_. And I knew I could get out of the hold, once there was a distraction going on."

Coulson snorted softly. "Bit hypocritical of you to say that, seeing as how you took the same exact shot less than an hour earlier."

"Yeah, but the difference between me and them? I don't miss. _Ever_." Clint slouched down in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Show me _one_ other person out there that can say that _and_ back it up."

Coulson sighed, shaking his head. "Clint, I'm really hoping that the way you're being right now is because you're hopped up on meds, because otherwise I'm inclined to do something drastic."

"Fucked if I know." Clint slouched lower, propping his feet up on the edge of the desk.

"Right." A notebook and pen were tossed on his lap. "Feet off the desk, and start writing. Everything, starting from when you got off the jet here up until the point where you saw the medics. And by the way, good job. You're doing really well at some of this stuff; obviously something is sticking."

"Only if I can have some ice cream or a cookie or _something_ to eat. I'm _starving_." Clint grumbled, starting to write.

"Excuse me, Agent Coulson?" A voice from the door had Coulson glancing over and Clint turning in his chair, seeing a nurse standing there. "Never mind. Agent Barton, you were supposed to stay put."

"Tough shit." Clint muttered, turning back around. "Wasn't gonna just lay around in a room full of snoring guys who stink, and wasn't like anybody _told_ me to stay. And it's just a damn cut on my neck, not like I was _dying_ or anything."

"Right." The nurse shook her head. "And I'm the Queen of England. Doctor Adams wants to check on that gash that you managed to end up with, and start stuffing you full of antibiotics and other lovely things that will make you puke your guts out." She turned and started walking down the hall. "Well?" Her voice echoed back.

"Wait, what?" Clint scrambled to follow, tossing the report he was writing on the desk. "'Cause I really didn't hear anybody telling me to stay!" He paused in the doorway, looking at Coulson. "That was what she was talking about, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he darted out, trying to catch up to the nurse.

* * *

"Thanks for tracking him down, Meg," the doctor nodded, before looking at Clint. "Agent Barton, sit. Stay."

"Yes, _sir_." Clint muttered rebelliously as he sat down where the doctor pointed. At least Coulson hadn't come along, because Clint didn't think that he could deal with _that_.

Nodding at the nurse, the doctor headed for the door. "Meg, I'll be right back, I want to grab the stuff for him. Could you get that bandage off?"

"Already on it, sir." The nurse had pulled on a pair of gloves and was taking Clint's blood pressure. The bandage coming off hurt, but as soon as it was off, Clint felt the pain start to go away. "How's that feeling?" She was crouched down, staring at his neck.

"Hell of a lot better." Clint was staring at the door, trying to figure out if he could make it out of there and to someplace out of the way before the nurse raised the alarm.

"You were told to _stay_, mister." The nurse gave him a stern look as the door opened and the doctor returned. "And that means not making a run for it until _I_ say you can. Understand me?"

"Listen to Meg please, Agent Barton. Now. Some of this stuff you'll have to get back on the Helicarrier, but here're the two most important ones. Finish them all and take them _on time_, or else you're risking lots of bad things happening, up to and including a miserable, drawn-out death." The doctor handed Clint two pill bottles and a piece of paper, before pulling up his chair and grabbing for a pair of gloves. "Okay then, let's take a look." He gently felt around Clint's neck, frowning slightly, before sitting back. Tossing his gloves in the trash, he nodded. "So, Meg'll tell you what to look out for while that's healing, but there shouldn't be much of a scar; it was a neat cut. Follow her instructions and there'll be even less of a risk of a bad scar. No gym until we say so. Range is okay, unless you start feeling strain in your neck, then back off. Skip everything if you're not feeling up to it, obviously. Follow up in a week, and you'll find out if you're cleared or not. Start _those_ right now." Standing up, he pulled out a notepad and watched as Clint obediently swallowed the pills. "Questions for me?"

"Why all this for a stupid little cut?" Clint didn't know if he was angry or curious as he held up the paper with the list of medications.

"It wasn't a 'little cut,' Agent Barton, it was rather close to the jugular, you got hit with blood that wasn't yours, and weapons generally aren't sterile, so there's a pretty big risk of infection from a couple different sources right there." The doctor nodded firmly. "Feel free to come back if you've any other questions."

Clint only half listened as the nurse went through the list of things he needed to do and to watch out for, handing him more papers. Nodding that he understood, he figured out where the rest of his stuff was, and went back to find Coulson. Raised voices from the room made him pause in the hall, and he sat down next to Radar, lightly nudging the other man on the arm as he pulled on his boots.

"Dammit, Coulson, what the hell was I _supposed_ to do? He's not fucking trained for this stuff!"

"You can stop blaming yourself, that's what you can do. You think I don't know that?" Coulson's voice was lower than Paul's, but it still echoed out into the hallway, the anger clear. "I _told_ Fury that he wasn't ready, but God only knows what Fury's got up his sleeve, and he didn't allow me to say no."

"They've been at it for the past fifteen minutes." Radar's voice was low and slurring slightly. "Although Paul's been on a good rant for _hours_ now, ever since they let him out of his initial debriefing. He's repeated himself about ten times. At least. And I'm getting fucking _tired_ of listening to it. But I don't feel like walking away, because he and I are the only ones who are mostly functioning on our team here. Bill's asleep, he said that the drugs were making him tired. I think he just didn't want to deal with anything."

"Oh." Clint didn't know how to respond. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't've said that stuff, by the way. And how's Max?"

"Don't sweat it. I said some wrong shit too. And I'm sorry. My fault you got hurt like that. Max is fine, too, but he's not here. Couple bruises, he said, although he'd rival a damn rainbow and call it a small bruise." Radar tilted his head to the side, listening to the argument. "We're gonna have to go break it up, Paul's about to break something. Or Coulson."

Clint snorted, standing up. "Think Coulson could hold his own." He pushed open the door, seeing Paul leaning over the desk Coulson was sitting at, breathing heavily. "Heya, sirs. Meg said since I was good, I can have ice cream now. So...can I?" He made himself act cheerful and upbeat, giving each man a grin. "She said something about yogurt, too, but that tastes like crap, so I'd really like that ice cream. It's still dairy."

"Barton." Paul didn't turn around. "Go away."

"Nuh-uh." Clint dropped the papers and pill bottles on the desk, perching on the edge. "'Cause you're getting pissed for all the wrong reasons. It was mostly my fault because I had shitty situational awareness, which _sucks_ because Coulson says I'm really good at teaching it to the geeks and now he's not gonna let me outta his sight for _weeks_, and I betcha ten bucks that all those guys came from places that _we_ didn't clear. Although I'm kinda inclined to beat Radar down in the gym a few times just 'cause he was being a whiny little ass and still is. And he called me a circus freak, which is _so_ not cool."

"Fuck you, Barton." Clint ignored Radar.

"See?" Clint gave a little nod. "You're not helping the matter, either, Paul, because while he's being a whiny little ass, you're being an even _bigger_ ass, and no yelling at me, because I got stitches and a hell of a lot of pills to take. Meg says they're gonna eat my guts. Or make me puke up my gallbladder, whatever that is. Boss, I need a better dictionary, by the way, because she was using a lotta big fancy words."

"This isn't over." Paul glared at Coulson, before turning around and stalking out of the room, Radar following.

"Meg?" Coulson watched as Clint resumed his position from earlier, slouching in a chair with his feet on the desk. "And frankly, I don't know if I should thank you or smack you."

"The nurse. Doctor Adams kept on calling her Meg. And I think the thank you, 'cause Radar said that Paul was about to start breaking shit. Like your _head_."

"Remind me to get on you about your language one of these days." Coulson shook his head, picking up the papers that Clint had dropped on the desk and scanning the top one. "And you know what, you're probably going to be miserable enough on all this that I _might_ just start to feel sorry for you."

"Should 'ways." Clint yawned, shifting to a more comfortable position. "Cn I," his voice trailed off.

Coulson watched as Clint fell asleep, before flipping through the pile of papers that Clint had been carrying around. Undoubtedly most of the instructions would be ignored, Coulson mused, and Clint would probably have to be bribed and bullied into taking all the medications, especially once the side effects started to hit. Leaning back in his chair, he started to mentally rework the next few weeks; ground school and other things that could be done on the Helicarrier didn't require much in the way of physical work, everything else could wait a bit longer, and if he had to go anywhere, he could just drag Clint along. Shaking his head, Coulson stood up, shoving his annoyance with Fury down. It was time to get back to work.

* * *

Clint woke up, feeling stiff and sick to his stomach. "Ugh." He moaned, holding his head. "Stop the _room_."

"Problems?" Coulson had cleaned off the desk, Clint noticed, and was sitting back, feet up.

"Yeah. I feel like _crap_." Closing his eyes helped, a little. "What the fuck did they give me?"

"Could also be hunger. And did they go over some of the side effects that you could get? That's probably part of it."

"Kinda? Was thinking of ways out, so didn't really listen." Clint found that a couple deep breaths helped a bit more.

"Then think of this as teaching you that maybe you should listen to those who do know what they're talking about." Coulson's voice was carefully neutral. "You were given a fairly big dose of antibiotics, and you've also been prescribed a couple weeks of even more stuff, which can be pretty nasty. Standard these days, unfortunately; at least it's not for too long."

"So that's why she said it'd eat my guts. Ow." Clint was starting to feel grumpy on top of feeling sick. "And I have to take that shit for how long?"

"Two weeks, according to the papers you got." Coulson nodded, trying to decide if he should offer bribes and threats now or later. "You do realize, I'm going to be checking that you're taking everything, right?"

"Yeah, _dad_." Clint curled up into a ball on the chair with a low groan, not caring how he sounded. It was as if his body had realized that he was awake and decided to make its displeasure known all at once.

"Clint," Coulson's voice was kinda odd, Clint thought, tired and stressed and worried, all at the same time. "How bad are you feeling, really?" Clint could hear movement, and guessed that it was Coulson, heading for the door.

"How do you think? My neck _hurts_ and I feel like _crap_ and I don't even know what _day_ it is or what _time_ it is and I was having _fun_ and then get thrown into _this_ pile of shit and I'd kinda like to be in _my_ bed and I _know_ I'm whining and I'm _sorry_ but I _can't_ give a fuck!" Clint took a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying to regain some self-control. He heard a low voice, then the quiet click of the door shutting. Not looking up, he felt something being draped over his shoulders. Grabbing at it, he realized that Coulson had just given him his suit jacket. Whatever.

"I see." Coulson was watching as Clint tried to burrow even deeper into the jacket over his shoulders, one hand pulling it over his head. "You've got a couple options, right now. One, go back to the Helicarrier on the next flight and stay in Medical. Two, stay here until I'm done. Either way, you're not going to be by yourself until the doctor says you can be. And it's Sunday afternoon." He paused, running through what Clint had said. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"Mexico City. Right before we left. Really good burrito. Gonna stay." A knock on the door had Clint trying to curl up even tighter as he heard Coulson hold a low conversation with whoever was there.

"So, Agent Barton, remember me?"

"Meg. Nurse." That was easy; there weren't too many females that he'd talked to recently, and he only knew of one that was in the building.

"What's bugging you?" Clint felt a hand worm its way around his wrist, holding it lightly, before it let go and worked its way to his forehead.

"_Everything_." The hand moved away, and Clint let out a slight sigh of disappointment. It had felt nice and cool.

"I'm sorry." the nurse actually sounded sympathetic, Clint thought. "Can I give you a shot? It'll calm your stomach, and let you eat something, which'll help. I can also give you some stuff to knock you out, and that'll help even more, although I want you to take your meds before that."

Clint lifted his head slightly, glaring. "I. Don't. Want. To." He put his head back down.

"Either you take them, or we keep you locked up in Medical with a needle in your arm." Clint heard the nurse moving around, and stayed limp as she gave him a shot.

It took a couple minutes, but he started to feel a bit better, and he slowly uncurled. "I don't care." He saw some crackers and a soda on the desk, and grabbed at them, bolting them down. That helped, too, and he looked up to see Coulson and Meg in practically identical positions, staring at him. "You guys're freaky."

"Yup. They teach us that in nursing school." Meg nodded, and held out her hand. "Here. The stuff that I promised you."

Without looking at what she gave him, Clint swallowed everything, washing them down with the rest of the soda. "Good?"

"Perfect." Meg knelt down in front of Clint. "You follow those instructions I gave you earlier, and listen to Agent Coulson, okay? I only want to see you in Medical for routine stuff, because you look like you'll be a real pain to work with, mister. Thanks for cooperating this time, though. I'll also talk to the doc about maybe getting some of that stuff adjusted. It might bug you less overall."

Clint glared at Coulson. "She gave me that crap." Shifting his glare, he continued, "do they teach you that in school, too?"

"I did." Meg lightly tapped Clint on his nose. "Because better that you feel shitty for a few days than feel shitty for months, understand? And no, they don't teach us that in school, they teach us that working with stubborn asses who call themselves SHIELD agents. Now, up." She steadied Clint as he stood up, and led him over to the corner of the room, where Clint saw a pillow and blanket on the floor. "Agent Coulson's been told to keep an eye on you for now, so you just sleep here, okay?" Watching as Clint bonelessly dropped to the floor, she spread the blanket out over him. "Somebody'll be back to check on him in a few hours, sir, although I'd feel more comfortable with him back on the Helicarrier, preferably in a room in Medical until we know that everything's under control."

Coulson sighed, thinking. "There's a flight heading back in an hour, he can go back on that, and you'll be able to keep him in Medical for a couple days. Tie him down if he starts looking like he's going to make a break for it, although he'll probably cause you less of a headache if you just keep him asleep."

"We don't really like to do that," Meg started, with a glance back at Clint, "but if he's this miserable, I can try and talk Doctor Adams into writing orders for it, at least for a little bit. I'll try to remember to make a note to put in his chart, too, since it looks like he's a bit sensitive to drugs." Turning around, and poking Coulson in the chest, she continued, "and _you_, Agent Coulson, need to teach him to take care of himself; I don't want to have to deal with this sort of situation ever again. Understand?"

"_What_ situation?" Coulson started moving for the door, forcing the nurse to follow. "Unfortunately, can't wrap him up in bubble wrap and store him away in a box someplace. It's in the job description that SHIELD operatives _will_ get hurt, and he's more likely to end up in that position than some others."

"Making him work before attending to the basic necessities of life," Meg snorted. "And on that note, to pay me back for all the headaches that I can see myself and the rest of the nursing staff going through because of your being lax in that aspect of being a good handler, _you_ can buy me dinner. I like steak." She gently shut the door behind her, leaving Coulson staring at it, wondering what had just happened.


	20. Chapter 20

Fury knows all. Medical doesn't act quite the nicest (or properly, either).

* * *

Coulson strode through the crowd in the hall, hoping to make it to Medical before he was stopped for some spurious reason. Spotting the door, he quickly darted through it, looking around for anybody.

"Sir?" A tech hurried up to him. "Need something?"

"Barton?" Coulson glanced around, and looked back at the tech in time to see him roll his eyes. "That bad?"

"Worse. This way, Shirley's sitting on him right now."

"I hope you don't mean that literally."

"Sir, he's scared off half a dozen nurses and techs, and made a doctor _cry_. Most of the time, he's either been asleep or driving everybody nuts, all the while obviously plotting ways to get out of here. Sir?" The tech stopped, looking back at Coulson.

"I am going to _kill_ him." Coulson muttered. "Then lock him in his room for a _week_." Nodding, he started walking again. "Okay. Let's go."

He could hear Clint through the closed door, and wondered if the archer had been reading the dictionary for fun; Coulson didn't think that some of those words were actually used much anymore. Allowing his annoyance to show, Coulson opened the door. Only practice allowed him to not laugh at the fact that there was a tech sitting on the bed, clearly ignoring Clint as she flipped through a magazine. The stack next to her indicated that she'd come prepared for a long wait. "Barton, shut up."

Clint shifted his glare from the tech to Coulson. "Traitor. You bastard traitor. I can't feel my _feet_ because _she's_ been sitting on them. _You_ said I could stay down in Guatemala until you were done, and then I woke up _here_." He jabbed one finger at the wall. "_They_ won't let me have anything to do, they hid the remote, and all they let me eat tastes like _crap_."

Coulson walked into the room, returning Clint's glare. "I said to _shut up_, Barton. Shirley, is it? Thank you, I'll be out to talk with you and the nurse on duty in a minute, because I want to get both sides of the story. Barton, they just told me you made a doctor cry. Explain."

"She wasn't _listening_." The minute that Clint could move his legs, he did, hugging his knees to his chest, stretching, then relaxing. "Oof. Ow. Good." Closing his eyes, he continued, "it was one of the shrinks who kept on telling me that if I didn't talk with her that she'd start drugging me up 'because you're obviously depressed.' She was _prying_, Coulson. Kept on trying to get me to talk about shit that I _don't_ want to talk about, and I don't _need_ drugs. I'm _not_ crazy. So yeah, I made her cry. Wasn't like I made any _physical_ threats."

Frowning, Coulson glanced out the door. "Could you go get me Beeks, please? Thank you." Shutting the door, he looked back at Clint, moving closer to the bed. "And the nurses and techs you managed to scare off?"

"Them." Clint shrugged. "Didn't think I scared 'em that bad, sorry. So I puked on that one guy's shoes and asked if they were trying to poison me deliberately. I had just woken up!"

"Right." Coulson didn't think he'd ever get the full story from Clint or anybody in Medical, so he decided to handle what he did know. "Anything else?"

"They keep the lights on in here _all the time_, don't give me _any_ privacy, and I'm _bored_. I ask for something to do, and it's all 'oh, we'll have to go check with the doctor,' and whenever the doctor came in and I asked _him_ he looked at me like I was crazy and said that they were only keeping me here because _you_ asked them too. There wasn't any reason for me to not be able to watch TV or have a book to read or anything like that. It's been like this for the past _week_ and nobody would tell me when you'd be getting back and there isn't a _phone_ in here either so what did you _expect_ of me!"

"That you'd be polite. That you'd act like the adult that you technically are." Coulson heard the door opening and ignored it. "That you would follow the instructions of everybody here. Hello, need something?"

"You asked to see me, Agent Coulson?" Doctor Beeks' voice made Clint scowl and Coulson frown.

"Yes. What was the reason for one of the other psych docs to come in and see Clint? I thought he was yours."

"Huh." The psychiatrist shut the door behind him, before sitting on the edge of the bed. "So you were the one who made Julie cry. Hate to say it, but good job on that, and thank you; we'd been trying to get her to realize that there are rules about things here for a reason, and trying to take people that aren't assigned to her isn't allowed except in case of emergency. We do consult with each other, but what she had been doing was flat out wrong. I've been waiting until you got back, Agent Coulson, especially since the rumors around here have been that Clint was being a rather large pain in the ass."

"Yeah, well," Clint muttered, still glaring at Coulson, "all I was allowed to do was stay in bed with nothing to do and nobody telling me _anything_. It wasn't like I was going to collapse and _die_ if I did anything besides sit around all damn day."

"Wellll," Doctor Beeks drew the word out, "if Agent Coulson would go do whatever it is he needs to do, you and I can have that rather delayed post-mission chat. I've the time. Agent Coulson, check back in an hour, please." Looking at Coulson, who nodded and headed for the door, he continued, "So I've heard what happened, but I want your take on it, Clint. First off, though, how was your Thanksgiving?"

"Oh, I don't know, doc," Clint snapped. "I kinda was having fun playing with a bunch of little kids and kinda _maybe_ getting some shit sorted out in my head and then we got called off to a place where I got a fucking gash in my neck that requires a hell of a lot of crap that makes me feel terrible. So how do _you_ think my Thanksgiving was?"

* * *

An hour later, Clint stalked out of Medical behind Coulson. "Sir, I'm going to go get a shower, because I haven't had one in over a week. I'll meet you in your office, and you can yell at me then." Turning on his heel, he started to walk off.

"Clint." Coulson was tired, and he knew it showed.

"Yeah?" There. Less anger in his voice, more curiosity...Clint turned back around. Not that he wasn't still upset, but it wasn't Coulson's fault. At least, not completely.

"I'll get you that apology, eventually. You're owed a few. You've got thirty minutes, make it less, and bring something to do. You were right, I'm not letting you out of my sight for now until you can prove to me that you'll show a level of responsibility that needs to come with your position here and the fact that you're an adult. Not to mention that you're still not done with your meds, and I do want to see that you're taking them all. Understand?"

"Yeah." Clint sighed. He really was trying, but it was hard. "Understand."

Clint quietly slipped into Coulson's office, looking for a place to put down his peace offering. "Here, sir," he said, holding out the thermos. "I'm sorry for acting like I did, and I'll apologize to everybody else later. Except for that shrink, she deserved everything that she got."

Coulson stared at Clint steadily, trying to decide if it was worth it to address the fact that Clint still hadn't learned the idea of knocking. It wasn't, he decided, because there were worse things that could be happening. "And I'm sorry, too. I could have at least sent a message, especially when I realized that I'd be stuck down there longer than expected. I was quite honestly expecting to only be there another day or two, not an entire week." Taking the thermos, he opened it and was happy to smell coffee. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, shit happens." Clint was staring at the edge of the desk. "I still don't think it was very nice of them to have done all that, though. Makes me want to cooperate even less." A pen smacking into his chest was the only response. "Hey!" His head shot up. "I haven't thrown anything at you in _weeks_, boss, what the fuck!"

"Payback, Barton, is a bitch." Coulson deliberately kept his tone mild. "You haven't finished your report, which needs to have been completed and submitted as of," he checked his watch, "three days ago, and I've managed to get all of Paul's team here for debriefing, which also needed to have been completed as of _four_ days ago. Start writing. Feeling better?" He tossed a notebook at Clint.

"Shower helped. A lot. So did grabbing a soda and a damn sandwich." Clint nodded, putting his feet up on the desk and leaning his chair back while he read what was already written. Somebody had obviously added on to what he'd started, he thought it was Coulson's handwriting, but whatever. It hit all the low points of those few hours of terror. "Did they tell you just _why_ they acted like that?" There. Whoever had finished this had missed a couple things, and he started to write.

"A lot of this, Clint, came about because you were being you. They just didn't realize it. Some of it was them misinterpreting orders from me and the medical staff that was in Guatemala. The rest of it was because you were being very non-compliant with what the doctor had ordered, like taking the meds. Feet off the desk."

"Lemme guess, I look like I was raised in a circus." Clint parroted back, not moving. "I'm good, thanks." He ignored Coulson's low mutters with a grin.

One advantage to the fact that Clint had decided that he liked to wear the boots he did were the thick soles, Coulson decided, as he looked between the feet on his desk and the angle that Clint was sitting at. Another advantage, he mused to himself as he stood up, was that while Clint had the experience of years of surviving, he still had a good decade to make up for the level of trickery that Coulson knew. Leaning over his desk, Coulson shoved, then sat back down. Trickery later, brute force now.

Clint let out a strangled shout as his chair tipped backwards. Only training kept him from landing flat on his back, as he threw an arm backwards and _twisted_, forcing his body into a contortion that he hadn't needed to use in a while. Not able to stop, he kept twisting around to land on his knees. "Hey!"

"Feet _off_ my desk. If you'd rather it in a language other than English, I can offer you a few different choices."

"My feet weren't _on_ your desk," Clint argued, righting the chair and picking up the pen and notebook. "My _boots_ were, on the very edge. There's a difference. And here, done." He tossed the notebook on the desk.

"No, there isn't." Coulson eyed Clint, then sorted through a drawer. "You're stuck here for the next two, three weeks, Clint, so take a look at this and tell me what you want to do first. This little shindig that just happened completely screwed up my schedule for you, so for now we're just going to wing it." He watched as Clint grabbed the file, sitting back down. "And the only body parts, and their associated clothing, that are allowed on my desk are waist level and higher."

Clint could see a couple loopholes in what Coulson was saying, but decided not to fight it yet, just opening the file and reading through the list on top. "You really believe that I'll be able to learn all this?" He asked. "'Cause this is a lot of stuff."

"There are some things that are more important than others, obviously. Which reminds me, I have your bag." Coulson picked it up, tossing it over the desk. Clint caught it awkwardly, then started digging through it.

"Yes!" He crowed, pulling out some papers and his Walkman. "Wanted to finish these." Dropping his bag on the floor, Clint slid his chair closer to the desk and started sketching. "Shindig? Didn't think that you used those sorts of words."

"I don't." The tone was warning enough. "Weaponry later, please, you've got two minutes to tell me in what five things you want to work on next out of the top...ten with red checks on that list, then you've got a meeting to finally debrief."

"Ugh." Clint looked at the list again, putting his head down on the desk. "Okay. I'm working on the French, still, listen to the tapes all the time, read the books and stuff at night. You'll make me get the okay from the doctor before I can go back to the gym, and I'm not going back in there for another couple days because I know I owe them apologies and I was a real ass but right now, I don't care. Ummm." He thought. "What do you think I should do?"

"Turn it around, Clint. What do you think would be best for SHIELD? Don't think I haven't forgotten that, and I've even got a few more scenarios for you to think about if you want."

"Whatever. So, best for the big boss, not the mostly cool boss. Computers, they always look like fun, and flight lessons, because that's kinda physical and the Quinjets are awesome. Basic first aid stuff, yeah, I can see that. Putting all this time and effort into this nutjob, gotta make sure he'll survive. And I guess I can start studying the whole military deal, since I remember you telling Paul that you're gonna ship me off to the Army for a bit which I'm finding kinda freaky to think about. That enough to let you watch me suffer?"

Coulson stood up. "Good. Also glad that you're not going for the easy stuff first; some of that will take you longer than you think. Incidentally, how close to done are you with the French?"

"Close enough to be able to be a really bad American tourist, according to the notes in the margins of that book." Clint looked up. "Was that you?"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about. Let's go, Clint. I'll be done tearing apart your written report in a couple hours, so you'll get to rewrite it then."

* * *

Pausing outside the meeting room, Clint took a deep breath, lightly spinning a pen through his fingers.

"Everything okay?" Coulson was standing behind Clint.

"Yeah." Clint nodded. "Just have to remember that I'm happy." He put a small smile on his face, opening the door. "Heya, guys." He glanced over at Radar. "How's the world's whiniest little ass doing now? Still owe you that smackdown. Next...Saturday work for you? Think I can clear my _incredibly_ busy schedule for the two minutes it'll take."

"Fuck you, circus freak." Radar grinned. "Heard you were getting sat on."

"Difference of opinion. I wanted my bed, they wanted theirs, you know how it is..." Clint shrugged, looking around at everybody else in the room. "Bill!" He moved around to where he saw an open seat, lightly slapping Bill on the back as he passed. "How's the arm?"

Coulson watched from the door as Clint greeted each person there with either a question or a cheerful insult, and saw how each of them responded. Realizing that Clint just naturally put on masks when dealing with most of the world, Coulson leaned against the door jamb, just watching and thinking over different options. Getting Clint to _not_ act around other people would be the biggest challenge, and Coulson was thankful that the archer had decided to be honest with him. He wondered if it would even be worth it to try to get Clint to change. Still making mental notes, Coulson didn't move as he felt somebody come up behind him.

"Good job, Agent Coulson." Fury. "Seems that your problem child has picked up something, at least." He chuckled at Coulson's sigh.

"Sir, we really do need to talk, preferably right after this." Coulson didn't turn around. "Are you sitting in?"

"Yes. I'm curious." Fury moved to stand against the wall. "Agent Barton, you jackass, what in the hell were you thinking?"

"How nice it'd be to give you a pink coat, maybe a matching eyepatch." Clint nodded, ignoring the way that he saw a few shoulders tense. "And that maybe I wouldn't kill the geeks, just scare 'em a bit." He held out his hand. "They made me cut my _finger_. I'm afraid that I won't be able to draw my bow right, ever again."

"And how would you know that it would actually be pink, huh?" Fury grinned, all teeth. "Seeing as how you're damn near blind as a bat."

"Simple." Clint returned Fury's grin with a careless wave. "I'd use some of those freaky-ass skills that Coulson hasn't realized he's been so good at teaching me and get a nice lady to help me, because," he opened his eyes wide, anxiously wringing his hands together, somehow managing to sit up straight and yet seem smaller, "My grandpa really wants this one shade and I'm really bad at telling some colors apart and maybe you could help me out a little, ma'am?" He ignored Bill and Radar both hissing at him to _stop_, thank you very much, pushing the Director was Not Done in favor of tilting his chair back slightly. "See, Coulson? Working to my strengths!"

"Barton, shut up." Coulson didn't want to deal with Clint in a mood, and had to raise his voice to be heard over Fury's laughter. "We're here for a reason, and being an ass is not it." He acknowledged the faint sighs of relief that he heard with a small nod. "Sir, am I running this or are you?"

"I am, and sorry that I'm late." Agent Santos sat down next to Coulson. "Director? You okay?"

Fury wiped at his good eye, still laughing. "Fine." He sobered up. "You do realize, this could very well mean war, Agent Barton?"

"Bring it, _sir_." Clint returned Fury's sharp grin with an identical one of his own.

* * *

"Sir," Coulson firmly shut Fury's office door on Clint. "You nearly got a half-trained asset killed, making me assign him to something that he had absolutely _zero_ training for. I have been _nothing_ but honest with his progress, and while I could see you making me drag him out for an assassination that, frankly, was _incredibly_ low on the threat board, for this he really could have been sat at a base as security, instead of ending up with _twelve stitches_ and enough drugs so that I have to rearrange his entire training schedule! He almost ended up _dead_."

"But he didn't, did he. And outside of a rather eventful week in Medical, he looks to be more than fine." Fury's expression didn't change as he waved at a chair. "Sit down, Agent Coulson, and tell me just what the hell is going on with your boy instead of getting pissed off."

"Other than needing to rework everything that I had lined up between now and the end of the year?" Coulson frowned. "Hell of a lot better than expected, even with your little diversions. Few things that I'm still concerned about, but I'm working on them."

"Good." Fury leaned back in his chair. Coulson could see that he was thinking. "Because we need him trained up one hell of a lot faster than was originally planned. What happened with the two stations was bad, but there are signs that it could get worse. We've got a larger problem than a leak releasing where two of our research stations were and the best time to attack; what had been an easily controlled trickle of information increased quite a bit recently. Why I went looking for somebody just like Barton."

"So you drafted him – and you can't call it recruiting, not the way that he was bullied into all this, sir – to deal with a _leak_." Coulson's voice was flat.

"And a hell of a lot of other things." Fury nodded. "We _need_ a solo operative, Coulson, and while pulling from the military like we normally do would've been easier and a hell of a lot faster, Barton is the best one for the job. He's got a hell of a lot of abilities and knowledge already, it's just a matter of making him realize that he knows it. Sure, he needs to learn a lot, and he _will_ be going to college even if that means tweaking the budget so that you get _another_ damn degree in order to drag him through it, but some of the other things, like the SERE training that Greeves wants him to go through? I don't think he really needs it. The boy's a fighter, if he uses his damn brain he's able to get out of things, and the first time he mouths off and gets smacked for it, that'll be a better lesson than _any_ training can ever give, as you should very well know."

"So how did you find him?" Coulson folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair.

"Santos. He knew that we needed somebody, took his nephew to the circus one night, saw Barton doing his little act and a couple other things. He got curious, did some digging, showed me, and I agreed. We cleaned up Barton's background before bringing him in; what you've got isn't the official version now."

"I'd assumed that." Coulson just stared at Fury.

"We tell ourselves that we can easily classify him, but he's _better_ than what he's been showing us, right?" Fury leaned back, hitting a few keys on his keyboard as Coulson nodded. "He managed to evade the FBI three times in a month, and the third time they'd sent enough men that even you would have had problems. The boy? Saw something, and as soon as his act ended he walked out of the damn big top and didn't stop. Didn't bother going for any of his belongings, didn't say a word to anybody other than he would be back in a few minutes, just walked off in his fucking costume, carrying his bows, slipping right through the ring that was set up to catch him and a fair few other folks. Stole a car, stole some clothes, got as far as he could in a night before, apparently, walking the rest of the way to New York. Lucky for a hell of a lot of people involved, including our tech guys' ulcers, he'd only been going by Hawkeye and the FBI agents they had tracking him down weren't the best at keeping records."

"He admits that he's good at seeing patterns, which is probably most of what you're seeing. So Director, what do you want me to do?" Coulson glanced at his watch, hoping that the problem they were discussing was behaving himself.

"Keep on going the way you have been. There are other people working on that leak, for now. We do have a more than a few things that could use him, once he's cleared to go back out." Fury frowned. "And good job on him this far. I've a sneaking suspicion that if you cut him loose right now, he'd do a halfway decent job. He sometimes reminds me of another agent who just so happened to be preternaturally good once _he_ figured out that this place was for real and he wasn't about to be smacked down for having ideas, even if it's taken this long for him to start showing a damn personality."

"Barton and I, Director, are _nothing_ alike." Coulson stood up, realizing that he was speaking harsher than he probably needed to. "Now if you'll excuse me, sir, I do need to go make sure he's not terrorizing the bridge crew; I'd really rather not crash."

Fury watched as Coulson left the room, practically slamming the door behind him. "Two sides of the same coin, Coulson. You'll see."


	21. Chapter 21

Coulson continues being tricky. Christmas.

* * *

Clint loved learning about the Quinjets. He couldn't figure out why, exactly, but it was fun to sit up front in the co-pilot's seat and actually be able to see more than the sky. The taste of actually taking the stick for a few minutes was even better. Unfortunately, Coulson didn't let him focus just on flying, but made him split his time between everything else that he said that he'd work on.

Also unfortunately, Coulson made good on his threat to not let Clint out of his sight, with few exceptions. Clint couldn't understand how he did it, but Coulson just _knew_ when he was at the range, or in the mess hall, or at the gym, and just showed up if he thought that Clint was taking too long. Clint still hadn't figured out how Coulson could show up at the range at 3 AM, looking like it was the middle of the afternoon.

"Sir, you're not letting me get _any_ practice in." Clint finally had gotten fed up after a week and a half. "And that's just not cool, because what if, after you not letting me practice, I miss a shot?" He tried to not let his frustration show; he'd actually managed 40 minutes today.

"This from the man who tells me that he never misses?" Coulson nodded to himself; he'd given Clint five days to hit this point; the fact that Clint had lasted this long was a good sign. He ignored Clint's scowl.

"Yeah, but I can't be as good as I need to be if I don't get at _least_ an hour in on the range each day, and no matter _when_ I go, you always seem to drag me off after thirty minutes. Same with the gym. Thirty minutes and there you are. I've been _trying_ to act like you want me to, but it's a little hard when you're dragging me around by my ear." Clint thought about how he was presenting himself, and came up with an idea. "Compromise?"

"Oh?" Coulson stopped and turned to face Clint, leaning against the wall. "Compromise how?"

Clint thought quickly. "You let me have...four hours each day to get to the range and the gym, and I'll start on the Russian."

"Hour and a half, and you actually work and don't just waste your time."

"I _have_ been working. I've realized that the computer stuff is a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be, so I want to know what really is important and what is a load of crap that can wait a bit longer or be skipped. Flying is totally awesome, and the trainer said that I can start in the simulator in a couple days. Three hours."

"Counteroffer." Coulson let a small smile out. "Nine to five, you're working, in my office. Rest of the time is yours. Only exception is when you're doing flight training." He wondered if Clint would realize that the hours he'd offered meant that Clint would be spending more time studying...

"Half hour for lunch, then deal." Clint nodded, then realized how he'd been played. "Oh, _not cool_."

"I'll even let you have one day totally off, how about that?" Coulson turned and kept walking. He wasn't able to hear what Clint was muttering. "What was that?"

"I was an idiot, sir." Clint gave Coulson a cheerful grin. "And you're _so_ totally devious."

Coulson looked around, not seeing anybody, then stopped again, turning to face Clint. "Thank you, I think. And on that note, three things, Clint. One, I've got some treats, have them in my office. Since you've showed that you're making progress, they're yours. Two. You work with me on a couple other things, I'll get you a few days to go spend at another base as security. Not total downtime, but it's easy enough; outside of your assigned hours, the rest of the time is your own. Three. You're doing a good job."

Clint looked hopeful. "Presents? Getting cool again, boss."

"Perish the thought that I am not 'cool,' Barton. Let's go, you've got a date with the Russian language, and I need to tell some people that they can stop calling me whenever you show up. Being woken up in the middle of the night is not my idea of a good time."

Coulson allowed a week of the new schedule before he decided to switch things up. "Clint," he watched as the archer looked up from his book from his spot on the floor. "Ever thought about what you'll need to go undercover?"

"Blending. Playing to my strengths." Clint moved to a chair, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk. "That sort of thing?"

Coulson held out a box. "Have a cookie." He waited until Clint had taken one. "Now, what if somebody asks you about where you went to school?"

"School? I'd say I didn't?" Clint was starting to feel a little confused. "That what you mean?"

"Yes, but what if you don't want people to know that?"

Clint thought for a second, half-eaten cookie loosely held in one hand. "You mean making stuff up."

Coulson shoved a piece of paper under Clint's hand. "Yes. And stop dropping crumbs all over my desk." Sitting back, he thought about how he wanted to word the rest. "Going undercover is no different than the acting you do; the next step is taking it further, and creating a background that you can remember and is actually believable."

"So nothing like being Tony Stark's long-lost brother?" Clint sighed theatrically. "There goes that idea."

"No, being rich is usually not a good thing, unless you're the type of rich person who doesn't flash it except to get into things."

"That's so...something. Don't know what." Clint shifted. "But yeah, I see what you mean. How do you keep it all straight?"

"Practice." Coulson pulled out a file. "This might help, as well; it's what somebody has used in the past when they've had to create a background. Good enough for, say, some Army training, not good enough for anything long-term."

"Is that a hint?"

"There's a sniper training course starting up in January. It's five weeks long; it'd be nice if you could make that one." Coulson nodded. "We can probably swing stashing somebody else there with you if you _really_ want a security blanket, but try to think of it as a good test."

"Huh." Clint read the top page in the file. "It'd be nice, yeah, but I think I really can do it on my own." He shot an amused glance at Coulson. "Not like, yanno, I wasn't on my own for a while. Only difference here is that I'm not doing the circus thing, I'm doing the pretend Army thing." He shrugged.

"Good point." Coulson nodded.

Clint looked back in the file. "Hey..." he slowly started. "This was _you_?"

"I have no idea what," Coulson automatically started to say, then saw that Clint was holding up a picture. He sighed. "Yes." He _knew_ that he'd taken all the pictures out, which could only mean that somebody was playing games. He suspected Fury.

"Bad. Ass." Clint nodded, firmly. "Agent Phil Coulson, super spy. _Awesome_."

"I was not a," Coulson started. "I had to," he tried to figure out what he wanted to say.

"_Relax_, boss," Clint snorted, amused at how flustered Coulson was getting. "Like you expect me to go swinging from the rafters or something, shouting it all out. You don't want people to know, I _get_ that. _Totally_. Now stop looking like I actually said something smart and tell me what I need to do."

* * *

It would have been hard for Clint to not have noticed some decorations going up around the Helicarrier; they were all over the mess hall, and there was even a paper tree on the wall in the armory. Somebody had drawn menorahs on it to go with the lights and reindeer. He spent a couple days letting ideas float through his head, realizing that he really couldn't make most of them work, then visited stores.

"Clint," Coulson handed a plastic bag to Clint one morning. "Merry Christmas. Delores sent some things from her family, as well."

"Whoops." Clint started looking through the bag. "Forgot that I'd need time to send something to them." He pulled a few cards out of his pocket, and flipped through them. "Here, sir. Merry Christmas to you, too." He thought for a second. "Does that mean that I still have to do stuff today?"

"You can have a half-day, how about that." Coulson opened the card, reading what Clint had written. "And if you can manage to pull this off, Clint, I'll be very surprised."

"I _haven't_ been acting adult enough for you?" Clint was very carefully opening the things he'd pulled out, holding up the drawings. "_Uncle_ Clint?" He didn't bother trying to hide his shock. "That's...freaky. Are you an uncle, too?"

"It's a way for June and Dave to force you to stay in touch; don't want to disappoint the kids, after all. And no, I'm not." Coulson visibly relaxed. "Have you looked at what June wrote you?"

"Yeah. She got on me about eating right. And not staying in touch, not that I know how." Clint nodded, trying to open the tape on a box. "Wow." He held up a knife. Pulling it out of its sheath, he lightly ran a finger down an edge, then tested its balance. "Thank you. It's awesome."

Coulson nodded. "You're welcome. Incidentally, adults tend to sit in chairs properly, they don't require bribes, and they tend not to read while lying upside down. And if they don't know how to get in touch with somebody, they'll ask somebody who either knows or knows how to find out."

"Adult equals boring, right." Clint nodded. "Guess that means that I'll never be what _you_ consider an adult, then." He looked at Coulson in shock as his handler actually laughed. He could count on one hand the number of times that he'd heard Coulson laugh. Not even on their regular movie nights did Coulson laugh.

"Adult means _responsible_. Who were all those cards for?" Coulson was still smiling, slightly. He didn't bother trying to hide it.

"June 'n her family, Delores, Paul, and the guys on his team. Also figured I'd give medical a blanket apology, 'cause I've finally stopped being pissed off at them and feel up to saying that I'm sorry. Can just bring that by today." Clint shrugged.

"Think you'd be willing to drop something off for me?" Coulson pulled an envelope from his desk, holding it out.

"Sure." Clint glanced at the name. "Meg? Gotta date, boss? If I knew you were checking out the med staff, I'd've tried harder to be good."

"She decided that because she's of the opinion that I haven't taught you to take care of yourself and the fact that she feels that you're going to be a pain in the ass in the future as well, I owed her dinner. I'm still trying to decide if I'm going to make you pay me back for the gift certificate; steak houses aren't cheap."

"Still not answering my question, boss, but yeah, I'll drop it off for you, since you're obviously too chicken to do it yourself." Clint tucked the envelope into his pocket.

"I'm just using the resources available to me. However. Take a look at the last thing in there, Clint, then we've got work to do." Coulson wouldn't admit it, even under torture, but he was having fun, now that he didn't have to constantly worry about if Clint was actually working or not. It was a refreshing change.

It was an envelope, and Clint ripped it open. An ID card fell out into his lap, and he looked at it. "I have one of these. I even remember to wear it. Sometimes."

"Merry Christmas from even more people; your clearance level has been increased, you're getting a raise, and you get to start helping me work on some things that are actually important. Those lovely two weeks you spent bitching is a result of an inside job, and that needs to be dealt with. It also doubles quite nicely for more training, analyzing data and forming your own conclusions. And then defending those conclusions to others."

"How do you do that, find a leak?"

"Variety of ways, but it's hard. Different pieces of information might be given to different areas; see what gets out. Somebody may say that they've seen somebody else acting odd. Pure dumb luck. Try not to read mail, but if it's important, then nothing's sacred, as bad as that may seem. I doubt that you actually read all your new hire paperwork, but you did sign a paper that stated that you were okay with the fact that there is a good chance that your communications will be monitored. The intel guys get bored sometimes." Coulson shrugged. "Problem?"

"Yeah, know that. Don't care, not like there's anything for folks to see. Only talk to you about anything important, anyways." Clint shot Coulson an amused look, tilting his chair back. "Read all the orientation materials. I was getting bored."

"You read it all," Coulson just looked at Clint, "because you were getting _bored_."

"Delores said almost the same thing." Clint nodded, letting the chair hit the floor with a thump. "Aren't people supposed to?"

"It's nearly 1000 pages put together by the legal department; people usually skim the first few pages and call it good."

"I didn't say that I _understood_ everything that's in it, just that I read it. Do people really get sent off to Siberia if they screw up?"

"Siberia, no, there was that little thing called the Cold War going on until just recently and there are still a few tensions with what was the USSR and the fact that yes, we regularly sent people there to create havoc with the KGB and various HYDRA spin-offs, and they did the same to us. Greenland, Canada, Alaska, yes." Coulson realized that he was letting Clint distract him. "Enough distraction, get to work. You'll also probably want to call June once you're done for the day, it's only polite. Feel free to give her a mailing address; use the one on your driver's license."

"Cool," Clint nodded, picking up a book. A quick glance showed Coulson that it was an Army manual. "Best Christmas, _ever_."

* * *

"Have to say, sir, whoever gets Private Smith is going to be the luckiest bastard in the entire US Army. Also will end up going through the most aspirin; his writing is terrible."

"Interesting?" The Captain leaned back in his chair, staring at the Lieutenant. "Why do you say that?"

"He hasn't been spotted once unless there's somebody with him, and I'm about ready to pull out those new goggles, the ones that let us see body heat, to see if he's even _on_ the course or off getting a beer. Although that may change once we move from the woods to the urban environment."

"Ever thought about asking him?" The Captain raised his eyebrows.

"What, and ruin my reputation? Nah, I bribed one of the other guys there to figure it out. I think that the bribe's finally reached the rest of the trainees."

"Dammit, Smith, how're you doing it?"

"Doing what?" Clint looked up from the manual he was reading. "Reading?" He held up the book. "See, there are these things called _letters_, they form things called _words_, and words are combined in things that like to be called _sentences_. You just have to learn what letters go into what words, and what those words mean, and yay! Reading!" He pointed to a sentence. "See, this one says 'the sni-per,' that's two syllables, mind, 'is re-spons-a-ble,' oooh, _four_ syllables, 'for,'" he cut off as a hand reached out and smacked the back of his head.

"You know what I mean. How're you not getting spotted? It's like, trying to find you out on the range, not seeing shit, then hear a shot, and half an hour later you're walking up like you were at the damn bar."

"Ah." Clint quirked an eyebrow. "I use the Force, my fellow Padawan." He grinned at the look he was getting. "Patience. That's all it is. I know that I've got the time to get in, take a shot, and get out. And seriously, Johnson, sit down. You're too damn tall at this angle."

Johnson sat at the other end of the couch. "Patience? Shit, Smith, I've been trying everything that I can, and all you say is _patience_?"

"Yeah." Clint nodded. "I use the time I get. You guys are just trying to rush. Not like we get done any earlier in the day, we just get more time in the classroom. I _hate_ the classroom, so if I use the full time we're given, then hey, less time inside, more time outside. See where I'm coming from?" He shrugged. "Besides, had it trickle down from somebody who's gonna remain totally anonymous that this training? Mostly about staying cool under pressure and taking the time to do shit right. The shooting's the easy part, yeah?"

"Yeah. And that's the other thing. You're too damn good, Smith. Where'd you learn to shoot, 'cause basic sure as hell doesn't go for that much accuracy. At least, my training didn't. And they're not after us to have perfect accuracy _here_, either."

Giving on on trying to read, Clint just snapped the manual shut and sat up straight. "Going hunting with my dad." He hadn't been surprised how easy it was to lie; he had been surprised at how easy he found it to remember his cover story. "Started shooting when I was little, and get more for a pelt if there aren't any bullet holes in it. So, set up a good spot, climb a tree, and just...wait. See where I'm coming from?"

Johnson snorted, standing up. "Yeah. C'mon, we were heading over to hustle some pool. You in?"

"Sure." Clint grinned. "Five bucks says you make that intel puke cry in an hour."

"Thirty minutes."

"Look, dude, you _gotta_ leave the poor guy's mother outta it. That's just not in the rulebook."

* * *

It took getting to the SHIELD house in Atlanta for Clint to start relaxing. Ignoring the people sitting around the kitchen table, Clint grabbed the phone and perched on the counter, relaxing even more as he dialed a number from memory. "Heya, boss. Here. Yeah, don't think so, but Private Smith's XO or CO or whatever is probably gonna get a letter saying that they're either super lucky or have a lifetime supply of booze coming their way; listened into a few conversations here and there. There was a bribe being passed around to figure me out, too. Managed to stick to the script." He laughed. "Whatever. See ya when you get here." He looked over at the group sitting around the table. "Hey. Is there anything like a phone book here?"

"Yeah," one of the men said. "Drawer under your leg."

"Sweet. Thanks." Clint shifted, pulling it out. "Lessee...archery, archery...there." Digging in his pocket, he scribbled down an address. "Later." He started to leave the kitchen, then turned around. "Oh yeah. Agent Coulson shows up anytime in the next six hours, tell him I'm off getting reacquainted with my bow." He ignored the whispers that sprang up behind him with a grin.

* * *

"Report, Barton."

"The only reason, sir, for me to have just done all that was to practice going undercover or for you to get me out of your hair. The things that they were teaching I already knew, or _you_ taught me." Clint didn't turn around. "And if it was the second, then I'm not quite sure what to think."

"I can quite assure you, it was incredibly boring with you not around." Coulson sat down at the table, grabbing at a bottle of beer. "Although I got far more work finished than I otherwise would have, your running commentary was indeed missed. Have fun?"

Clint shrugged. "Enough. Few challenging bits, but not too bad. It's all an act, after all. Remember your lines, remember your character, go with the flow."

"Do you think that you'll be able to actually write descriptive reports now?" Coulson tossed a file folder in front of Clint. "And I want your thoughts on this."

"Probably not. It all comes down to the same stuff. I see target, I shoot, arrow goes where I tell it to. Sometimes arrows. Or bullet, now." Clint shook his head as he started reading. "Think somebody'll need to dig into the teams, based on this. And security."

"Why?" Coulson agreed with Clint.

"Because lookit the amount of information that's been shown to have been released." Clint spun the file around, pointing at a few spots. "Different science stuff, can't tell how specific it all is or if it's just something that somebody walking by could grab. The locations of research bases and what's going on. So it's either a single person who has access to all this information, or a bunch of 'em. And, sir?" His finger rested next to two lines. "What the fuck, sir." Very clearly written was his name, along with his circus title. Below it was Coulson's name.

"I know." Coulson's voice was grim. "Although I'm not surprised. You really don't have a code name yet, but your circus name was making the rounds a couple weeks ago. Nobody's very happy about that, but what can you do."

"Find out who's talking." Clint was feeling anger build, that people were spreading things around that concerned _him_. "And let me have a go at them in the gym."

"Relax, Clint." Coulson pulled the file back. "So far, that's all that was found to have been leaked about you. And really, is using Hawkeye so bad for out in the field? There are worse things that you could be called. Once knew a guy called Missus. He looked like a linebacker."

"Nah." Clint shook his head. "It's just...I don't know."

"Privacy, maybe?"

"Yeah." Clint nodded. "I know I've said it before, but I _like_ it here, and really don't want to screw anything up that'll end up with you kicking me to the curb. _Really_ wouldn't be able to deal with that. I just want some stuff to be on my own terms, and my terms don't include people talking about shit that doesn't concern them because otherwise I might get too annoyed and start breaking the rules."

"There are some things that you won't be able to hide, Clint. You'll just have to choose what, exactly, you're willing to share out of the rest of it." Coulson didn't look at the archer. "You're starting to sound a little on edge. Care to tell me why?"

"Ugh." Clint shook his head. "Not really, but whatever. Promised I'd be honest with you. Trying to figure out who I _am_. Just _me_, Clint. Not Agent Barton or 'dammit Barton!' or whatever else people are calling me these days."

"Welcome to being human, Clint, although I suspect that this is less an existential crisis and more the fact that you just spent five weeks undercover, with no real time to unwind and step out of character until today, along with a healthy dose of homesickness." Coulson stood up. "On that note, I happen to have some things to do that will take about a week, and the flight instructors are looking forward to getting you back on the Helicarrier. Go find a bed, you can fly back with the mail tomorrow." He waited until Clint was almost out of the room, before adding, "and don't forget the Russian, either!" He smirked at Clint's response. The archer's accent was terrible, but he'd obviously picked up the basics quickly.


	22. Chapter 22

Coulson whump. Clint puts his some of his crazy skills to good use.

* * *

Coulson swore, jerking the steering wheel to the right as a car suddenly cut in front of him and slammed on its brakes. The screeching of metal told him that he hadn't been successful, and he swore again as his car started to spin, hitting the concrete barrier, everything going black.

He woke up, feeling hands on his head like a vise, something wrapped around his neck, and a blanket covering his face. "Sir, stay still, we need to cut you out. Everything's going to be okay." The hands tightened even more as he tried to move, because he _hurt_, and if he could just _sit up straight_ it would be better. "Sir. Do. Not. Move." the voice – female, sounded mid-twenties, Coulson automatically noted to himself – went from calm and friendly to calm and friendly with a core of steel. "My name is Diane. I'm with the ambulance. Can you tell me your name?"

"Coulson." Coulson forced out.

"Good. Do you know where you are?" Diane's voice was casual, but Coulson could hear the undertones of concern in it. "Wait one, he's awake!" She hollered.

"Car." Coulson tried to remember just what city he was supposed to be in. "Philadelphia?"

"Close enough." Diane sounded approving. "Alright!" She yelled.

There was a screech of metal, and suddenly the blanket was pulled off of Coulson's head. He swore, as the pounding in his head turned into jackhammers, and closed his eyes, feeling more hands grabbing at him, before passing out again.

The second time he woke up, he was strapped down to a board, and hurt even more. Groaning, he tried to turn his head, only to discover that he couldn't. There was an oxygen mask on his face, and he could hear sirens and beeping in the background.

"Coulson. Don't try to move, we've got you strapped down to a backboard. Do you know my name?" The voice sounded familiar, and it took Coulson a second to place it.

"Diane."

She ran hands over his body, and Coulson couldn't cover the winces as she hit spots that were particularly tender. One spot on his leg nearly had him saying something, and then she started poking at his belly...Placing her hands on his chest, she told him to take a deep breath. He tried. It hurt. Keeping an eye on her face, Coulson tried to get an idea of just what was happening and how bad it all was, but he wouldn't want to play poker against her. He couldn't tell anything.

Finally, she sat back. "So, Coulson a first name or last?"

"Last. Phil. Philip."

"How old are you?"

"34."

"Any allergies, medications, particular issues that I need to know about or tell the doctors about?"

"Business card. Wallet. Call them. Fast. Can I move my head?" It was hard, but it seemed important that he keep on talking, if only as a distraction from the damned pain.

"Not until the doctors say so. Can you tell me what happened?" She glanced over Coulson's head at his muttered "crashed," and then reached up to an IV line that Coulson hadn't realized was there. "Jack, how long out?"

"Thirty, with this traffic."

"Damn. I hate the Schuylkill." She moved, and Coulson strained to hear the conversation. He couldn't make out words, but the tones were a bit more worried than he'd hoped they would be. She sat back down in Coulson's view. "Make it in fifteen, I won't bitch about going to Wawa for every single meal again for the rest of the week."

"Sweet." For some odd reason, the glee in the driver's voice made Coulson think of Clint.

"Alright, scale of one to ten, ten being the worst you've ever felt, how'd you call your pain?" She stared at him, daring Coulson to be anything but honest.

"Eight."

Diane nodded, picking up a radio. "County, need a patch through to med command..." Coulson listened as she rattled off things that only she, and the doctor on the other end, seemed to understand. He was able to catch a few things, but most of it was like trying to understand Clint's Russian. SHIELD medics usually drugged first, asked questions later. "Copy. See you in fifteen." She looked down at Coulson. "Ever have morphine before?"

"Yes."

"Oh, goody. You're getting more." She reached into a bag that Coulson hadn't noticed, pulling a small black box onto her lap, before pulling keys out of her pocket and unlocking it. Picking up a vial, she eyed it, dropped it back in, picked up another one, nodded, then shut the box and dropped it back in the bag, pulling a syringe out of a tray strapped on the seat.

As the morphine entered Coulson's system, he finally relaxed, entering a pleasantly drugged haze.

* * *

The next time Coulson woke up fully, he was in an actual bed, and felt much less restricted, although he could feel the cast on his leg and bandages on his stomach. He kept his eyes closed, trying to assess his environment, while running through his memories of what had happened. Right. Car accident. Opening his eyes, he saw Clint slouched in a chair, legs stretched up on the bed, gaze firmly fixed on the door. "Barton, feet off the bed. People will think you were raised in a circus." His voice sounded rough, and his throat felt scratchy and dry, but it was enough to jerk Clint upright, eyes wide.

"Report." Coulson fished around for the call bell he knew had to there, pressing it firmly. The sooner he dealt with the staff here, the sooner he could get back to SHIELD.

"Car accident, two, no, three days ago. They had to do some emergency surgery and kept you kinda well drugged up until today, 'cause you weren't wanting to breath when they tried to get you on a lower dose to wake up. You're going to be transferred as soon as the docs here say it's okay." Clint's eyes darted between Coulson and the door, and he subtly tensed as it opened, a nurse walking in.

"Nice to meet you, Philip. I'm Sheila, your nurse. How are you feeling?"

As Coulson answered the nurse's, and then the doctor's, questions, he kept an eye on Clint, who had moved to slouch against the wall by the window, arms crossed across his chest in what appeared to be a position of disinterest, but Coulson knew the signs that if anybody even breathed wrong, Clint wouldn't stop to ask questions, but would just start shooting. He did wonder who had gotten Clint to wear his suit.

"Well, Philip, I'd like to keep you here a couple more days," the doctor started.

"It's _Agent_." Coulson was tired of everybody calling him the wrong thing. "Agent Coulson, thank you, and why you're probably being pressured to get me out of here and to a facility that you've never heard of. Unless you'd like more people like Agent Barton here coming around and disturbing all the rest of your patients. Am I allowed to travel? Agent Barton is getting twitchy, after all, he'd much rather that he not have to guard against an entire city. This is a lovely hospital, please don't misunderstand, but it's not our own, which makes Agent Barton even more nervous."

The doctor followed Coulson's eyes over to where Clint was standing by the window, attention split between the view outside and what was happening inside. He paled slightly when he saw Clint suddenly focus on the hospital staff in the room. "Fine. It's your body. I'll have your nurse get the paperwork together, if Agent Barton can make sure that you've got transport all set up."

"Just waiting on your say-so, doc." Clint pushed off from the wall. "Need to make a phone call, we've an ambulance standing by to take Agent Coulson to the Northeast Airport. Our jet will meet us there."

The doctor shook his head. "Better than going down to Philly International. Make your call." He walked out of the room, muttering under his breath.

Clint dug in one pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper, before picking up the phone and dialing a number. "Barton. We're good here."

The nurse was walking back into the room, a pile of papers and a syringe in her hands. "Well, sorry to have you with us for such a short time, Agent Coulson. The ambulance is actually here already, just waiting on a signature. Would you like some more pain meds for the ride?" At Coulson's nod, she efficiently gave him the drugs, before starting to pick at the tape on his IV.

"Leave it." Clint's voice was surprisingly firm. "He's just going from one hospital to another, and we've a nurse who's going to meet us with the plane." He tensed slightly as the ambulance crew entered the room, one hand inching towards where Coulson knew that his gun was kept, then relaxed.

Coulson didn't try to fight the drugs to stay awake and watch yet another one of Clint Barton's masks come out, instead storing it away in his memory to discuss later.

* * *

Coulson was getting damned tired of sleeping when he next woke up, realizing that he was in the Helicarrier's medical facility. Clint was in the same position as before, this time in his usual uniform with a book draped across his chest, asleep. "Clint, if I've told you once..." he started, watching in amusement as Clint jumped. "Now, I want a real report, not that half-assed one you gave me last time."

"Right now, it looks like a drunk driver, realizing he was about to miss his exit, then discovered that there were actually cars in front of him. Accident, in every sense of the word. You managed to," here Clint paused, digging in his pocket for his notepad. "end up with a tib-fib fracture, slight liver laceration, and you bruised your spleen, as well as a few other smaller lacerations." He stumbled over the unfamiliar words. "whatever that all means, I just copied down what the ambulance crew was being told. Got back here and they took you into surgery again, dunno why."

"It means that I need to be very thankful to the fire and ambulance crews for getting me out of the car and to the hospital as fast as they did, and that the hospital was prepared to deal with all that." Coulson said, quietly. "Clint,_ sit down_. I can't chase you down right now."

Clint was starting to edge towards the door, but sat back down at Coulson's calm order. "You _said_ that you'd come back." He looked on the verge of panic.

Coulson sighed, and stared at the ceiling. He'd been positive that they'd gotten past this sort of reaction, but obviously it was just waiting to jump back out. "Clint, help me sit up. I don't know where they hid everything, and I want to actually look at you." He hissed slightly as the movement of the bed pulled on his stitches, but took a breath, and got a good look at the archer. "You look like hell, Clint."

Clint slumped back in his chair, every inch of him screaming pain. "Yeah, well," he muttered. "you know."

"No, I don't, actually. This is one of those moments where you need to talk to me, Clint, because I'm not yet completely versed in Clint Barton-speak." Coulson could feel himself getting snappish, and forced himself to calm down. "Now, I've a job for you. Won't even make you leave Medical. Go get the nurse, then we can continue this conversation when I can focus on the important things, not the fact that I'm in screaming pain. It will also give you a chance to think about what you're feeling and maybe make my half of the conversation a bit more stimulating than it would otherwise be."

Clint nodded, and hurried off. Coulson took that moment to glance at where Clint's book lay on the bed. The Little Prince. He sighed, wondering if it was a bad thing to have fostered the relationship that he had with the younger man; Clint hadn't shown any desire to really bond with anybody else at SHIELD. There was that rather disrespectful relationship with Director Fury, and he'd worked with Paul's team...but that was really about it. He spotted Clint following the nurse and doctor over. "Clint. I know you've got a few things that you're working on right now. Go get them, and by the time you're back, I'll have finished talking with the doctor."

"Yes, please, Agent Barton." The doctor was obviously trying to be diplomatic, but there was an undercurrent of annoyance in his voice. "I do need to speak to Agent Coulson, without you in the room."

Clint nodded, turning to leave, shoulders slumped.

"Can I have something so that I can deal with him when he gets back without having to yell?" Coulson tried to be polite. "Everything. Hurts. And what exactly happened?"

"Boy needs help," the doctor was grumbling, as he opened the chart. "So, Agent Coulson. Damn lucky, you were. Broke your leg in two spots, lacerated your liver, and sorry, we had to go back in and remove your spleen. No big loss, you'll deal. The doctors at whatever hospital they had you at were good, but it was easy enough to miss. I'd rather give you something to completely knock you out for the rest of the day or so, but we can give you a little bit to tide you over, as long as you promise to let the nurses know when you're done dealing with Agent Barton so that they can give you the rest. Figure another two, three days here doing nothing, then we'll see."

Coulson sighed in relief as he felt the painkillers take effect, nodding at the doctor. Already feeling bored, he did the only thing he could think of to do and picked up Clint's book, starting to read.

When Clint slunk back into the room, Coulson had already figured out what he was going to say. "How many SHIELD personnel were sent to Philadelphia?"

"Huh?" Clint looked confused. "Three security. Flight crew. A nurse. Fury's orders. There was concern that it wasn't an accident but an attack."

"Somebody obviously has a greater estimation of my value to SHIELD than I previously thought." Coulson shook his head. "And how many of the medical staff there did you terrorize?"

"None, until you pointed it out to the doctor." Clint looked slightly upset that Coulson would question his ability to be anything other than a bored security guard. "I was just there for security, after all. I didn't even stay in your room the whole time, we swapped off every few hours. One in the room, one floating around the hospital, one taking downtime. We were just about to swap when you woke up. I was planning on checking out their art museum." He paused. "Not quite sure just what the cheesesteak debate is that I heard about is, or why it's such a big deal, we had both Pat's _and_ Gino's, really couldn't tell the difference. Four AM is the best time to go, lines are shortest and Radar said that there were some pretty crazy fights going on. He wanted to join in, 'cause he was feeling mad, but he was working so he didn't."

"And you did a good job I suspect, except for the whole feet on the bed thing." Coulson tapped the book he was still holding against the blanket, ignoring Clint's snort and his segue into Philadelphian cuisine. "Now. This little bit of panic just now?"

Clint had obviously spent the time thinking of a good response. "You're my handler. I don't want to have to break in another one."

"Barton..."

"You almost _died_."

"That's an exaggeration, and you know it."

"The nurse on the flight was talking about idiots who couldn't drive and could be taken out by a drunk, the doctors and nurses at the hospital were talking about possibly having to do more surgery, and then you got back here and you did have to have more surgery."

"The nurses here make it a practice of insulting everybody behind their backs if you haven't realized that yet, the doctors and the nurses at the hospital probably always talk about that for anybody who had emergency surgery after a car accident, and I got back here and the doctors decided that they'd feel more comfortable doing more surgery now so that there wasn't any chance of problems later." Coulson calmly refuted every point that Clint had made. "Next problem?"

Clint blinked, train of thought derailed. "Oh. How come that doctor didn't realize that there were three of us? I mean, we look nothing alike, me and Radar and Irene._"_

"The suit, Clint, most people don't bother looking beyond the fact that you're wearing one. It's one reason why you have it. So, figure you need some rules. I don't do hovering. If you want to be hanging around here, I expect you to have something productive with which to occupy your time. How is the Russian coming?"

"Good enough. It's kinda easier than the French. Dunno why."

"Okay. And everything else?"

"First qualification flight tomorrow, still working on computer stuff."

"Good." Coulson pushed the call button, breathing a sigh of relief that he'd been able to head off a full-fledged Clint Barton freak out. "Now, the doctor has informed me that I'm going to be required to sleep the rest of the day, as much as I may object. I do have a second job for you, however. I need my bag, and in my office, the files that are labeled 'Frog.' They're all on the desk. I'll be damned if I'm going to laze around."

* * *

The next day, Clint practically bounced into the room, flopping down into the chair next to Coulson's bed. "Passed."

"Congratulations." Coulson nodded, not looking up from the files spread across the tray table and his lap. "And?" He felt, more than heard, Clint's sigh as the younger man pulled out a book and language dictionary, then turned on his Walkman.

Not even five minutes later, the door opened again. "Agent Coulson? I have a message for you." It was one of the techs, holding a file in one hand. Coulson still didn't look up from his work, but held out one hand, nodding in thanks as she left. A quick glance showed him that it was important enough. He reached out and tapped Clint on the knee, holding out the file.

"Clint, take a look, tell me what you think."

Clint looked up, taking the folder. Flipping through it, he shook his head. "I think that people need to just use black and white, _that's_ what I think. Stupid." He pulled out a couple pages, laying them to the side, before starting to read. "Okay. Same routines, every day. Work, home, goes shopping on Saturdays and out to dinner every Friday. She needs a life."

"This from the man by whom I do regularly set my watch based on when he goes to the range. Do you think you could follow her around for a bit without being seen?" Coulson reached out, grabbing the papers that Clint had put aside, taking a look, then picking up his pen and starting to outline the parts that he was suspecting Clint was having trouble with.

"Huh." Clint sat back, thinking. "Off base, yeah, probably. It looks like she stays in pretty crowded areas. On base, don't know." He glanced at Coulson. "And you're talking about going undercover inside SHIELD."

"I am. Questions?"

"Yeah. Why not just drag her into an interrogation room?"

"Because we need more proof, and what we've been able to find so far has been inconclusive. If we put her through interrogation and she's _not_ one of the leaks, we'll lose a valuable scientist because she'll be mad that we doubted her. If she is, then maybe her contacts can be identified and traced. Here," Coulson held out the papers. "You can go yell at Intel about this; if they're upset send them here. Do you have any ideas about keeping an eye on her on base?"

"Maybe." Clint grinned. "Lab techs don't do much, right?"

"You'd be surprised." Coulson thought for a second. "But think it over, and I'll try to come up with some ideas, too."

* * *

Clint slipped into the lab, quickly and carefully shutting the door behind him, before pressing up against the wall and shooting the startled scientists a large smile. "Hi! Don't mind me, managed to piss off the boss one too many times and he's not gonna even think about looking for me _in_ here I think and so hope you don't mind?" He saw Paul walk by, and tried to press even further into the wall. "_So_ not here right now," he muttered, slowly sliding down to crouch under the window. "Very much not in here..."

One of the scientists glanced over towards him. "Guy with black hair? He just walked off."

"Sweet. Thanks." Clint stood up, pushing off the wall and wandering towards the bench. "So, what are you smart people doing?" He grabbed a chair, straddling it and resting his arms on the lab bench, careful not to get too close.

"We're playing at being mad scientists, doing stuff that nobody from security has yet to figure out." The scientist pulled off a glove and held out her hand. "Bobbi. You are?"

"Clint." Clint shook her hand. "Has anybody from security even _asked_?"

"Besides you?" Bobbi shook her head. "Nope. We're just playing with trying to figure out some stuff that was used back in World War Two. Unfortunately for us, what might be the only possible way to totally figure it all out crashed a plane somewhere in the Arctic around fifty years ago."

"Huh. Sucks." Clint settled further into the chair as Bobbi was called off by another one of the scientists. Lightly kicking his feet, Clint rolled the chair back into a corner, trying to stay out of the way. He acted casual, but kept his eyes moving. The scientists, for their part, kept glancing over at him, but eventually seemed to accept that he was just going to just sit there and watch.

A few hours later, the door opened again and Paul strode in, a frown on his face. "Excuse me, but have you folks seen a...Barton. Max is looking to beat your head in again; this time I might let him."

Clint stood up with a sigh. "Curses. Yessir. Just saying, though, Max really shouldn't fall asleep in public places, he was just _asking_ for it. Hey, at least I didn't use glitter this time?" Shooting a cheerful smile at the room, he left with a wave. The scientists just shook their heads.

* * *

Coulson hadn't seen Clint for over a day, and was starting to feel curious as to where the archer had vanished to, when Clint wandered in. "Hey. I owe Paul a drink." He slouched in a chair. "Can I have some hair dye?"

"Yes?" Coulson knew his confusion was showing.

Clint grinned. "You asked how I could keep an eye on the target while she's on the base. I just spent a few hours watching in a lab here, figured out that yeah, I could pull off being a geek, especially if you swap me in for the guy that washes all their stuff. Lemme take a week, look at some pictures and do some reading, I can probably even manage to mix up some of those chemicals that they like to use. It'll take a little bit of work, but look kinda sloppy, change my hair color, _should_ be covered enough that anybody there who'd recognize me wouldn't. Hopefully. And I owe Paul a drink because he helped me out, since I didn't have any real reason to be in the labs. I just told the geeks that I was hiding from him."

Coulson blinked, surprised. "I think we can make that happen. Good job."

"Yeah, well, stuff has kinda been sticking, but you'll need to tell me what to look for and what else to do." Clint nodded firmly. "I can even pull off being responsible and all that, be happy. I blame _you_."

"Oh?" Coulson didn't try to hide his curiosity. He blamed the drugs for his general lack of control. "Why do you say that?"

Clint shrugged, kicking his feet up onto the bed. "You don't let me be anything but. Simple as that." He didn't want to say the rest, but he knew that Coulson knew that he was hiding things. "And all the rest of it is stuff that I don't really want to talk about." He frowned slightly at the look he was getting, the one that said that he'd better explain, or else. "Fine. Playing Army showed me that yeah, I gotta grow up a little more. My job, my _life_, is to do a lotta crazy shit, and do you really want somebody who needs to be told to clean his room doing that? Even though sure, I like having everything neat. I like jerking peoples' chains, too, but that doesn't mean that I have to be a brat or fuck around too much for work stuff. And spending a month stuck in your office, too. Kinda showed me that book learning doesn't have to suck." He scratched the back of his neck, standing up. "And now that you've made me share all that, I'm going to go spend the rest of my day on the range 'cause this was _so_ awkward and I need to destroy some stuff." He slipped out of the room, leaving Coulson staring at the door, feeling mildly proud and confused.


	23. Chapter 23

Clint doesn't do social. Or cooking.

* * *

"Who are you? Where's Sarah? Why are you here?" Clint mentally winced. The lady standing in front of him didn't sound _mean_, exactly, but there was a level of accusation in her words that had him on edge already.

"I'm Clark. Stevens. Sarah got pulled away to go work someplace else, don't know where, and they told me to fill in here until she's back." Clint put an annoyed expression onto his face. "Don't know why, wasn't my choice and I had things to do that really can't wait until whenever I'm done here. Are you Doctor Summers?"

"Yes." The doctor frowned. "And I'm not pleased. Who is behind all this? Getting you orientated to the lab is going to put us back by a couple days and we are on a time crunch here."

"Sarah left some notes for me." Clint shrugged. "And there was one in there for you, too." He held out an envelope, waiting until the doctor had taken it. "So if you'll just let me know what needs doing, I'll get started." He looked around. "Nobody really cleans stuff up in here, do they."

"You do, now. Don't touch anything without permission." The doctor snapped, frowning as she read the note. "And this doesn't tell me anything. Where did she go? For how long?"

"Don't know, I just go where I'm told to go." Clint shrugged, heading to the sink and rolling up his sleeves as more people slowly trickled in, staring at him curiously. "Where do you people keep the soap?"

"Don't mind her," a voice whispered in Clint's ear as he worked on emptying the sink. "She's always upset when nobody tells her things that really don't concern her." Clint glanced over, eyebrows raised in question. "Not her job to decide about the lab rats. I'm Kirk. Bunch of us go get lunch together, you're welcome to tag along and we can give you the real rundown of how this lab works."

"Clark." Clint frowned at a stain on a beaker. "And that sounds great, thanks. Do I even want to know how this got here?"

"Probably not. When you've gotten all this done, come get me and I'll show you the autoclave. It's a little touchy sometimes."

Clint spent the week just watching and getting settled into the lab and his cover story. He'd spotted a few familiar faces, but with the exception of a couple curious looks, he was ignored. Returning to the apartment that he'd been told to use, he frowned slightly when he started to open the door and smelled cooking food. "Not normal," he muttered, as he placed his bag of take-out on the hallway floor. Pulling his knife and slowly opening the door, he edged inside, taking a fast look around. He heard noises coming from the kitchen, and carefully moved in that direction. He was met with Coulson pointing a gun at the door, standing at the stove. "What the _fuck_."

"One. Do not leave weapons out like you did. If you truly feel the need to have them at hand, figure out ways to hide them or take them with you. Two. It's called reporting in on a regular basis, and for right now, once a week is not considered regular. I know that I had told you to call me daily, unless my pain medications happened to make me hallucinate. It has happened in the past, but never before on Tylenol and the medical staff knows what I do and do not like to take. Three. I do not appreciate needing to bluster my way out of the not-so-tender mercies of Medical and the physical therapists just to check in on you in person. And on that note, report." Coulson didn't take his gaze away from the pan he was stirring with his free hand, flipping the safety on and putting the handgun down on the counter.

"I need to find the manual to the autoclave, because it's about to break down completely and it's just being passed off as 'a little touchy' and I think that it's actually able to be fixed. I've washed more glassware in the past five days than I ever thought possible because all the other lab rats don't and I've no clue what Sarah actually did besides sit around and look pretty. Comparing this lab to the ones on the Helicarrier, I can't see how they get anything done." Clint turned around. "And I need to go get my dinner from the hallway before the damn dogs next door get out and eat it. _Again_. I think the lady next door hates me or something and I've only been using this place to sleep and shower."

Coulson waited until Clint had returned, grumbling. "How much of that was you, and how much was your cover?" He nodded at Clint's startled blink. "I thought so. Now, report, _Barton_."

"Haven't seen anything, or heard anything. I followed her around a couple nights. She met with a woman, twice. Same woman each time. Tonight the two of them went out to dinner." He held up the bag. "Food looked good, figured that I could give it a try instead of fast food and it gave me a chance to sit at the bar and watch them for a little bit longer. They looked kinda close. And I really do want to get that autoclave fixed; I'm spending too much time kicking it when I could actually, yanno, be doing my _job_. Have pictures, too."

"I had noticed that your kitchen was lacking in some basics." Coulson nodded. "There is a grocery store right around the corner, you know. One of the many reasons that SHIELD has this particular apartment."

"Yeah, but what would I make?" Clint shifted over, peering at the stove. "I don't know anything about cooking. Day-old hotdogs, remember? And hey, can I have my gun back?"

"Only if you tell me where you're going to keep it. Table next to the bed is only an option if you're asleep."

"Look, I'd keep it on me, but the geeks don't _wear_ guns. I think that if I actually asked any of them about going to the range that they'd freak out and I'd lose any progress that I'd made with them."

Coulson just shook his head and reached for his crutches. "Watch the stove, Clint, and don't let the water boil over. I'll be right back." He left the kitchen. Returning, he tossed a card at Clint. "Concealed carry permit. Use it. You should have a holster already." He glanced at the stove. "And remind me to at least show you how to cook a few simple things. Move it, Barton, you're about to ruin the food. How, I don't know, it's just some spaghetti."

"Whatever." Clint shrugged, moving back. "How'll I get it past security without breaking cover?"

"Tell them that you're trying for an agent position. That, plus the card, will let you go to the range and bring it through security. Put it in a case in and out, then switch over to a holster once you're through. Lab technicians aren't required more than a few hours a month since they're just expected to know how to handle a weapon and not injure themselves, but the agents are expected to have slightly better accuracy. And on that note, don't go for perfect scores, we can work out what sort of scores you'll want to be going for after we've eaten and you've given me a decent report of the past week."

"Dunno, boss," Clint shook his head. "May need a reason to not be perfect." He grinned at the look he was getting. "Joke? Mostly? I mean, I kinda made my name on my shooting."

"And you're so modest about it, too." Coulson shook his head. "Need your help with this part. Take the pot, pour the contents _into_ the colander that is currently sitting in the sink, do not move said colander please, and then get everything else out that one normally requires for eating. That means plates and silverware, Clint."

"I know _that_. Just because I don't know much about cooking, doesn't mean I don't know _anything_. And would you damn well sit down before you fall over?"

* * *

"Thanks, Clark." Clint heard one morning. "It's awesome to show up and have a clean lab for once." Kirk nodded as he pulled on a lab coat. "Too bad that Summers has been bitching to get Sarah back, why she can't see that we've gotten more done in the past month than has gotten done in the past six, I don't know."

"Yeah?" Clint didn't look away from where he was scrubbing shelves. "Will admit, will be kinda nice to leave her yelling and get back to my real work. All this cleaning is wearing off my shooting calluses." He made a face.

"You shoot? I hate that part of working here. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, can never hit the target." Kirk shook his head. "And yeah, it's only what, an hour a week? But still, that's an hour of being at the range getting angry, and an hour when I could be up _here_, working."

Clint shrugged. "When do you go? I'm trying to become an agent, not just a lab rat, so I might know some stuff that could help you out. If you're interested in getting some help." He looked over at the tech. "And I go to the gym sometimes, too. Always better to work out with a partner." He grinned. "Guy I normally work out with is seriously pissed that I was sent here. He loves D.C., and to find out that I was ditching him for who knows how long and that it was to come _here_...I'm halfway scared what's going to happen next time I see him."

Kirk glanced at the clock. "I'll pass on the gym, but how about right now for the range? I think that somebody's actually come to look at the autoclave, and those shelves haven't been cleaned in forever, so another hour or so won't make a difference. Everything I had to do today can wait a bit; it was just analyzing some data and getting stuff started after lunch."

"Sure." Clint nodded, and started putting everything back. "Can't make any promises, but maybe it's something totally obvious."

"Stevens!" The yell had Clint wincing as he and Kirk entered the lab. Doctor Summers stormed up, slapping a piece of paper against his chest. "Explain this!"

"Um," Clint blinked, staring at the paper. "Stuff's getting fixed? Everybody gets next week off?"

"Things worked just fine, then you show up and all _this_ happens!" She snapped, "and I'm _still_ missing my lab assistant!" The doctor stormed off.

"Weird." Clint shrugged. "So, I'm going to go grab something to drink, anybody want anything?"

Clint mentally cursed out the drunk driver that had landed Coulson in the hospital and mostly stuck on the Helicarrier as he walked down the hall. He felt stuck, and he wasn't able to get to a secure phone until the end of the day. When he realized that he was also getting upset at Coulson for being in that accident, he stopped and snorted softly. "Being an ass, Barton," he muttered to himself. A raised voice had him stopping outside a door. Another yell had him nodding; Doctor Summers wasn't thinking about security, and he leaned against the wall to listen, pulling a pen out of his pocket and absentmindedly twirling it through his fingers. A statement made him pause. "Huh. I wonder." He thought about tracking down a phone and calling Coulson, but a thought popped up in his head. Coulson was expecting a call that night, and since Summers was arranging – something – for that afternoon, it would be easier to just wait and follow her.

"Hey, boss. Question for you." Clint stretched out on the couch in the apartment, flipping through the notes he'd written down. "How'd this lady come to your attention as a possible problem? 'Cause I'm wondering." Coulson's response made him sigh. "So I'm stuck here longer? C'mon Coulson, I've a couple ideas running through my head, and, yeah, I'll meet you there Saturday, and I'll keep on following her around. Does this mean I have to still play lab rat?" He made a face. "Okay. Fine. But I'm going to look like me."

* * *

"Report." Coulson was off the crutches, Clint was happy to see. Even though he still was wearing a cast. "Incidentally, thank you for the notice and remembering to check in."

Clint shrugged. "Didn't want to end up with you pointing a gun in my face again. Kinda scary to think that you'd shoot me. But yeah. How'd this lady come up on the radar?"

"A report was called in, saying that the caller had seen the doctor taking home things that needed to stay here, and some sensitive information went missing."

"That caller. Guy or girl? I wanna say that this isn't a leak situation, just a crappy lab with a scientist who has a thing for the lab tech. Only reason that she'd still be on my ass about, well, everything. And there are no other females in the lab." Clint kept his pace down to match Coulson's.

"Let's hold off this conversation until we're someplace a bit more secure." Coulson glanced around, seeing people moving through the hallways. The two men were the recipients of a few glances, and they lingered on either his cast or Clint's face. Meeting their eyes with a firm glare before anybody could get a good look took care of that.

Clint unlocked the lab, entering first. "Hi. Not supposed to be in here, you know. Can I see your ID, please?"

"Clark?" The person turned around. "You're not Clark. Lab assistant Kirk. I had left something here yesterday." He held out a badge.

Clint took the card, giving it a fast glance. "I seem to get that a lot." He glanced over at Coulson. "Do you know a Clark that looks similar to me, Agent Coulson?" He didn't return the card, passing it to Coulson. "So what did you leave behind? The orders were to only enter this room with a security escort until the repairs were completed, no exceptions."

"This." Kirk held up his wallet. "And I didn't tell security because they like to laugh at us. Are you sure that you don't have a twin brother someplace? You even _sound_ like Clark."

"Again, I don't know anybody by that name." Clint was inwardly laughing; channeling Coulson was _fun_. "Agent Coulson?"

"We are going to need to talk with you later," Coulson was standing by the phone. "So please sit down and don't listen. When security gets here, go with them. Understand?" He led Clint to the opposite corner of the room. "How did you reach your conclusions about all this?"

"SHIELD doesn't _let_ things fall apart the way that they've been in here." Clint waved one hand. "And what has Sarah been doing for the past couple weeks?"

"She's been working hard." Coulson frowned. "Reports say that she's settled in quite nicely."

"Working hard. Here, she was hardly working. And a phone conversation that I listened to suggested that the doc here was constantly hitting on her. So, why not call in a report?" Clint frowned. "Hey, you! Question. Rules for reporting possible leaks and spies?"

"Anonymous reporting to a phone number with a New York area code." Kirk shrugged. "What's all this about?"

"Classified. Talk to me about the people in the lab." Coulson sat down on a stool. "All of them."

"The lab rats – um, lab assistants and technicians – do most of the work, really. His look-alike showed up a few weeks ago, was told to start cleaning and got most of this place back into working order. Me and the rest do the simple stuff, most of us had some experiments running. Nothing major, so it's easy enough to start them again since they've been ruined now. Doctor Summers is in and out, she does a lot of things, too. Why do you want to know?"

"Classified. What are you working on here?"

"You're not cleared for that." Kirk shook his head as a couple men entered the room, giving everybody a fast glance. "None of you are."

"Mr...Roberts," Coulson glanced at the badge he was holding. "My clearance level is much, much higher than yours, so kindly do not attempt to bluff with me. Agent Barton's clearance level is also higher than yours. Frankly, almost everybody's clearance level is higher than yours, so if you'd like to continue keeping this friendly, I'd suggest that you cooperate."

"You have an odd definition of friendly, Agent. We're working on some new vaccines, against some of the stuff that's been reported to have come out of Asia." Kirk crossed his arms across his chest, staring at Clint. "Are you sure?"

"He is sure. And yes, this is friendly. Unfriendly would be taking you out of here in handcuffs, returning to the Helicarrier, and sitting you in interrogation for a while, followed by a very close review of your security clearance. And thank you for the confirmation." Clint shifted slightly, hearing the annoyed undertone to Coulson's voice.

"Mr. Roberts," Clint jumped in before Coulson could get really mad. "Who was here before the man you keep on saying is me?"

"Sarah? She was supposed to be the general gofer in the lab, keep stuff clean. She did, the first couple months, but then I think something happened between her and Doctor Summers, an argument or something, and suddenly stuff changed." Kirk shrugged. "Nothing was getting done, Sarah was getting snappish, and Doctor Summers didn't seem to care what anybody did. Total personality change for both of them. Then Sarah left and Doctor Summers just got angry."

"Thank you." Coulson nodded, then looked at the security guards. "Gentlemen, if you would please escort Mr. Roberts to security and have him wait there, please? Thank you."

Clint waited until the door had shut before giving Coulson a narrow glare. "Seriously, boss, if you're hurting, this could've waited a bit longer. Sure, boring as hell here, don't understand a damn thing that's going on, but I can be patient."

Coulson shook his head. "No, it couldn't. I'm pulling you out now, this isn't a leak situation now that I've gotten some confirmation and more information, and you can go kill somebody in the middle of nowhere instead. Easy in, easy out. Not to mention, I suspect that much more of this would lead to you damaging SHIELD property and personnel. No, this is a HR situation." He stood up, swaying slightly. "Go get your things and meet me back here. I need to go continue talking with Mr. Roberts about keeping his mouth shut and when to call about potential personnel issues."

"Lemme guess, Alaska?" Clint grinned. "Thanks, sir."

"And, Clint," Coulson had already made it to the door. "Situations like this don't always resolve this quickly. Sometimes you have to be ready to do this sort of thing for several months. I've a couple suggestions for the long-term assignments, we can discuss it later."

* * *

Clint tried his hardest not to seem like he was hovering, but a storm was making the Helicarrier rock slightly and he wasn't sure that Coulson was able to stay upright. "Coulson, if you're sending me off again, are you coming this time?"

"Slightly." Coulson was mostly focused on staying standing. "Gina LeRousse is also coming, she'll be following you further into the field than I'm able to." He didn't say anything more until he'd sat down with a small sigh of relief in his office. "So. Have you been following what's been happening in Bosnia?" When Clint shook his head, he frowned. "Start watching the news, especially the international stuff, there are also newspapers available to read. But. There's a gentlemen who has a safehouse in practically the middle of nowhere; it's in everybody's best interests that he be taken out. Intel has it that he was involved in a few nasty situations. Agent LaRousse knows the area and situation very well; she's the one who called this and is doing most of the planning. She's a little tough, I'm warning you of that right now." He paused as his phone rang. "Coulson. Understand. Thank you." Hanging up, he glanced at Clint. "And never mind all that. Target was in Sarajevo, his body was identified after a recent shelling."

"'Kay." Clint shrugged. "So what now?" At Coulson's look, he nodded. "Studying. Gotcha." Standing up, he headed for the door. "Gonna go find the flight instructors, then, and grab that computer stuff." Grinning, he stood in the doorway. "After I go to the range."

* * *

Clint glanced up from his book, sensing somebody sliding into the seat across from him, sliding their tray onto the table with enough force to shove his back a couple inches. "Um, hi?"

"That was very rude of you." The scientist – Bobbi, Clint reminded himself – gave him a glare. "You show up, ask very few questions, spend hours just _staring_, and then vanish. All I knew was that you're Clint, from security, and whenever I tried to find your extension by asking somebody from security, they didn't know who you were."

"Huh?" Clint knew his confusion was showing. "I'm...sorry? Did I even say what I did here?"

"You'd better be. Now, real introductions." She held out her hand. "Bobbi Morse. I'm a biologist by trade, have been here for a couple months now. I'm using SHIELD resources to work on my PhD, and don't like it when people don't tell me the truth. You?"

With a small smile, Clint shook her hand. "Clint Barton. Operative. Shamelessly observed your lab for a bit to figure out how to go undercover someplace. Sometimes really does security stuff. Been here," he paused, thinking. "About a year?" He blinked. "Huh. Freaky."

"Time flies and all that." Bobbi waved one hand in the air. She squeaked when she realized that she'd hit Fury on the thigh. "Sorry, sir!"

"Barton, teach your girlfriend about situational awareness. Where's Coulson?"

Clint shrugged, shooting Bobbi a grin. "Sir, you should know that the geeks absolutely _suck_ at situational awareness and no, I'm not about to go and teach it to more people because that's _boring_. And I'm the problem child, so don't know, don't care, because I'm eating one of the best meals I've had in ages with some really _cute_ company. At least until you showed up. Have you tried, I dunno, calling his office?" He leaned back, quirking one eyebrow. "Or Medical. 'Cause he did kinda have that stupid ass car accident and the way that this tub is moving today, wouldn't blame him for going to bitch about getting out of the cast. And he does actually use his pager, you know." Nodding, he glanced at Bobbi. "And really, sir, I'm _so_ not the relationship type. Kinda just met, too, not cool to pull her into it all without warning."

Bobbi paled slightly as Fury started laughing. "What are you doing!" She hissed. "That's the _director_!"

Clint nodded. "Yep. Figure he can take it. They chose me, they have to deal with me." He glanced behind him. "Sir, hiding back there only means that it'll be easier for me to _accidentally_ hit you myself. You actually want something?" A folder being dropped into his lap and a cuff across the back of his head was the only response, and Clint grinned at Bobbi as he watched Fury walk off. "I think he likes me." Flipping open the file, he nodded. "Yeah. Get to go use my freaky people-killing skills." He caught Bobbi's glance and sobered up, leaning forward. "Think about it, Bobbi. I'm an _operative_. You haven't been here long, but think about what the operatives _do_, then think about if you wanna spend time and be seen with the 21-year-old _assassin_." Standing up, he mentally nodded. Tossing out all that should keep her from bugging him too much.

"Wait! Clint!" Bobbi was scrambling after him. "What is all that?"

"You sure you want to know?" Clint glanced at the clearance level on her badge, then took a fast look at the cover page of his assignment. "Not quite cleared for all of this stuff, and, well, not fun to think about sometimes."

"Yes." Bobbi gave smiled at him, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. "I need more data, don't you see?"

Clint shrugged. "Whatever. I'm a spy and I kill people because it's my job. _This_ is a guy who I need to go kill in cold blood because he pissed off the wrong people. Or maybe the right people, dunno. Yay me, splattering a guy's brains across the street in front of people who probably don't need to see that. And now, I need to go track down my boss who needs to see this, then have him figure out a few things because he was an idiot who got in a car accident and is still in a cast." He paused, thinking through his options on how to get out of the conversation.

"Oh." Bobbi looked deep in thought. "What about not killing," she started.

Clint interrupted her. "I kill people. I don't bring them home with me. And don't ask me that, because I don't know and the last time I asked about capturing somebody I was sent to kill, I got a talked at about idealism which totally _sucked_. Sorry that you didn't get to finish yelling at me, but you'll want to get back to your dinner before the mess hall guys get pissed off." Feeling daring, he lightly touched her cheek. "And that's it, 'kay? I don't do social. Or people."


	24. Chapter 24

Twists and turns. Clint gets jumped. Clint gets beat up, Clint gets mad. The next chapter was successfully saved from the world of corrupt files, so have an update tonight.

* * *

"So, think you can pull this off on your own?" Coulson looked up, seeing Clint's startled glance.

"What about you?"

"What about me? I'll be here, following the orders of the physical therapists, finally getting this cast off once and for all, and hopefully getting some more work done. This will be a good way to put your training to the test, since it requires multiple things."

Clint was thinking. "Can I have backup? And choose who's taking your spot?"

"Within reason. There are some resources in place already, but what are you thinking?"

"Paul and his team. They can play tourist, help identify this guy, and I can just hang out on a rooftop. Paul seems like he's able to do it all; really, I think that I just need somebody to tell me to take the shot. I'm still mad about what happened at Thanksgiving, and thinking about it some more, the killing part isn't bugging me as much as it used to. Dunno why."

"Acceptable, if they're around, but only tell them that you're going for tracking and possible detention purposes. Paul will need to be told the full story, but he's been cleared. I'll track him down and give him the heads up." He picked up his phone. "Here," he added, closing the file and tossing it at Clint. "I also want you to read this again and tell me by tomorrow morning your own conclusions and how you'd work things out. If you've problems with anything in there, go deal with Intel yourself." He paused. "And, Clint, I'm glad to hear that you're not having second thoughts. Rifle good to go?"

"Yeah. Hate the rifle though. Still." Clint grumbled as he stood up. "Sir, am I ever going to actually get to, yanno, use my bow? Thought my freaky circus skills was why this place wanted me."

"How about the next one." Coulson pointedly looked at the door. "And why are you still standing there?"

* * *

Clint leaned on the railing of a fire escape, scanning the street. "Target spotted. He's over by the flower stall, looking at some roses." He shook his head; this was the fifth day in a row that the target had come to this place, following the same exact path. It was almost as if he _wanted_ to be seen.

"Copy." Jake, the new guy on Paul's team, was the main distraction on the ground today. Clint really wasn't sure about him; he participated in things, but never really seemed to join in fully, and he'd vanished a couple times over the past week. Clint wished that Coulson was there to bounce ideas off of since trying to get Paul alone was impossible, but his orders were clear. HYDRA target, and if anybody from SHIELD appeared to be the problem, them too. SHIELD first, Clint kept on telling himself. Always SHIELD first.

"Clear to continue." Paul's voice made Clint jump.

"Sir." Clint nodded, even though he knew that there wasn't anybody there to see him, turning to jump up onto the roof where he'd stashed his rifle. "Orders?"

"You know them."

Picking up his rifle, Clint looked back down at the market. "Jake, what in the _fuck_ are you doing? Clear out!"

"He can't do that, Barton." A voice that Clint recognized had him freezing. "Lower the rifle. Hands up." The click of a handgun's safety being flipped off, along with pressure on the back of Clint's neck, encouraged him to obey.

"Both of you, huh?" Clint shoved down the fear that he was feeling as he was roughly stripped of all his weapons. "Guess I lost the pool, then. I had ten bucks on Santos being the leak. Hedged my bet by putting five on Meg the nurse. Thought about Fury, too, but you know how he is. He'd've wanted part of the winnings."

"Shut up." Bill moved around to stand in front of Clint, kicking at the rifle. Clint watched as it spun away, hitting the wall. "I didn't have a choice."

Clint just stared at him, expressionless, hearing Paul swearing over the radio. It was oddly reassuring. "We all have choices, Bill. Always. _Shit_!" He swore, almost falling over, as Bill punched him.

"I _said_, shut up." Bill frowned. "For the love of _God_, Clint, just _shut_ the _fuck_ up for once."

"Clint, don't push him. That's an order." Paul's voice was firm.

Clint just stared coldly at Bill, working his jaw slightly, thinking about his options. "Fuck. You." He ignored the voices on the radio telling him what to do. He kept his eyes on Bill as he heard movement from behind him and he felt himself being tied up, his radio being yanked from his ear. A sharp pain in the back of his head made him black out, but not before he wondered if Coulson had finally talked people into getting those trackers into clothing.

* * *

Clint woke up with a start and a hiss as somebody hit him. He could feel that he was tied up, and probably tied _down_, as well. Opening his eyes, he glanced around, spotting Jake and Bill standing in the back of the room. "That's it, you two. Consider yourselves _so_ off my Christmas card list." He looked up at the man standing over him. "Sorry that I forgot to send you one, but was all this really necessary? I mean, not like there was much to write home about...hi everybody, was hit on by a toddler, had to get some stitches, hugs 'n kisses, me."

The man just looked at Clint, raising his hand. Seeing Clint tense up, he lowered it. "Good. You know who is in charge here. Why were you in Montreal, Agent Barton?"

"Well, you know. Why would anybody visit Montreal? Little sightseeing, maybe pick up something to bug my dad with, that sort of thing." Clint kept his eyes moving, scanning the room, closing them as he saw the fist swinging in. "Shit! Okay, fine, and some chocolate or something for my mom. She loves chocolate, but can't stand American stuff, and I promised my grandpa that I'd work on my Canadian French. He's gotta thing about that, but he's old and getting kinda _weird_."

"Don't lie." The man chided Clint. "You were there to kill somebody. My source has told me that you have no family."

Clint couldn't see much of a way around that, and wondered just who had spread _that_ little bit of information around. And why. "Yeah, fine, that too," he agreed easily. "Damn shame; she looked to be the sort that's just perfect to bring home. You know the type, hot, good cook, _just_ crazy enough..."

The man chuckled. "You have a vivid imagination, Agent Barton. You were there to kill me."

"Those two, actually." Clint jerked his chin at Jake and Bill with a cold glare. He felt pleased to see them both go pale. "Fucking _traitors_...I just wanted to invite you out for a beer or two, ask a couple questions about what sort of benefits your guys get. I'm doing a comparison, see, trying to actually get life insurance included at SHIELD, maybe get a 401K program started." Shrugging as best he could, Clint continued, "figured if I could tell the boss that hey, HYDRA has way better benefits, he might be willing to shell out a bit more." He forced a casual grin onto his face. "He's a real stingy bastard when it comes to paying out." He didn't see the punch this time, and didn't bother trying to hold back the grunt when he hit the floor. This wasn't fun.

"I _said_, do not lie to me, Agent Barton." The man was starting to sound annoyed. Clint realized that he could reach a knot on whatever they'd used to tie him with, and let his fingertips trace over it. He could do this, because _Coulson_ said that they'd find anybody missing, and Coulson wouldn't lie about the really important things. He just had to be patient. Realizing that he _recognized_ the knot, and knew how to untie it, even one-handed, calmed Clint down even more, and he started planning. A boot in his side drew him back to his current situation. "Now now, no running away. Understand this, Agent Barton, you have absolutely no control here, and you will answer my questions, yes?" A snap of fingers, and Clint felt people hauling him upright again.

Clint shrugged, feeling a twinge from where he'd been kicked. "Dunno why you're asking _me_, I mean, those two were at SHIELD a hell of a lot longer'n I've been." He thought a moment. "Hey, question."

"You are not in a position to be making requests, Agent Barton."

"Just wanna know...how long were they fucking SHIELD over. That's it." Clint grinned, all teeth, at the look on Bill's face.

"Long enough, Agent Barton, and do not talk to them, talk to _me_. Now, they tell me that you've the ear of Director Fury. Tell me about the Helicarrier defenses. We know about the jets, but what is on board?"

"Fucked if," Clint started talking, only to get hit again. "I. Don't. Know." He gulped in air. That one had _hurt_. He looked over to where Bill and Jake had been, not seeing them. Cowards.

Another punch was his reward for being honest. "I think you're lying. Gentlemen."

Clint tried to stay stoic and act like he thought that Coulson would expect him to, but after a while, he figured that nobody would blame him for the tears running down his face. He couldn't figure out if they were because of pain or anger, but he didn't care.

* * *

Three days. Coulson had spent the past three days tracking the missing agents, wondering how they had missed the signs that not one, but two of them had turned, and both of them on the same team. He just hoped that Clint would leave them alive long enough to ask why. He refused to think about the fact that Clint may have gotten in over his head.

"Sir, we've several locations. Putting them on a map right now." Sitwell glanced over at Coulson. The scientist had developed several different tracking algorithms on short notice, and had been instructed that since they were his creations, he was in charge. Time was, they'd be driving around the city with scanners, while the computers slowly scanned other areas. Somehow, and Coulson didn't know how, Sitwell had sped everything up.

"Good." Coulson stared at the computer screen. "Can we tell which one is which?" He pointed to a spot. "And that one's the safe house, ignore it."

Sitwell frowned. "I can try...it might be an hour or so, though." At Coulson's nod, he turned back to his keyboard and started typing.

"Agent Coulson!" The call had Coulson turning around. "Phone for you."

Frowning, Coulson picked up the closest handset. "What!" he snapped.

"This is the SHIELD travel agency calling, we'd like to offer you a great deal on travel to Montreal, Canada, with an all expenses paid stay in a luxury _craphole_." Clint's voice had Coulson almost sagging in relief. He did close his eyes. "Sir, I'd kinda like to come home now, if I can. Don't think I'm liking this trip to Canada all that much. Although sorry, my rifle kinda got busted, please don't take that outta my paycheck. It _so_ wasn't my fault."

"Barton, where are you?" Clint's name caused a hush to fall through the room. "And I'm going to put you on speakerphone."

"Well, fucked if I know, sir." Clint sounded cheery, but Coulson could hear the undertones of pain and fatigue. "Not exactly able to get outside and look, but I'm hearing some big trucks moving, or they might be trains. I'm thinking trains, actually. In here, it's very...warehouse factory, all concrete and exposed beams and shit and the little room with the windows looking out on the big room. And total action movie. Can I say that I'm glad that they wanted to use the little room, especially since it had a working phone in it? Although that's kinda weird, dunno how long it's been 'cause there aren't any windows but would've expected people to actually use this place to work."

"Bill and Jake?" Coulson was still angry, that the two agents hadn't shown any indication that they'd switched sides, or if they had, that people hadn't noticed. He was going to enjoy talking with their teammates. And Clint, he realized, simply because of how much time he'd spent with Bill in the past. Shaking his head at the implications, he focused again on the phone.

Clint's voice went grim. "Sorry, sir. Jake made the mistake of pointing his gun at me. Bill...he's alive. Might walk again, might be able to use his hand again. He pissed me off. Shut the hell up, Bill, I'm not interested in hearing _anything_ out of your fucking mouth right now. I _trusted_ you, you bastard, and you went and sold us out. You fucked up, understand?"

"Clint." Coulson had been watching Sitwell as the man scribbled down an address and held it up in the air. "Are you able to hold out for another hour? Have where you are, and people are on their way."

"Yeah. Should be good enough; nobody's tried to come in for a bit, now." Clint's yawn was obvious. "Not tied up anymore, I have not one fucking clue where the primary target went, one secondary target is down and the other one will be if he doesn't _shut the fuck up right now_."

"Calm down." Coulson ordered. "Do you need anything?"

"A drink. Food. Some painkillers. Knowing who is coming. A couple band-aids. I've got an extra clip within reach and half a clip in the gun, so more ammo. A nap. That sort of stuff." Clint was having trouble hiding his pain, now, and he knew it was showing. "Kinda hurts a little?"

Coulson turned off the speakerphone, propping the headset on his shoulder. "Private again, Clint. Talk to me."

"Not now please, boss?" Clint was starting to sound a little faint, and Coulson hoped that he'd be able to stay awake long enough for the rescue team to show up.

Coulson glanced at a note he'd been handed. "Jim McDowel's team is on their way, so we're actually looking at pretty soon, since they were still in the city; they've spent the past few days geared up and searching. Know them?"

"Yeah. We had dinner however long ago. Glad they didn't leave." Clint was starting to sound angry again; Coulson found that he preferred that to the pain. "Bill, if you do not shut up, I will shoot you in your goddamned _head_, and make sure that your family gets _crap_. Shut up now, and _maybe_ I'll bitch and moan enough that they'll be able to visit you once in a while, understand?" There was a pause, and Coulson could hear a grunt. "Now, I'm not going to warn you again. Shut the fuck up, or the next thing that hits you _will_ be a bullet, and I _won't_ aim for your foot."

Clint gingerly leaned back against the wall, staring at nothing and working on controlling his anger. "Boss, just...keep talking? Or put on a geek and let them babble random scientific shit at me?" The smell of the room was starting to get to him, and he felt on the edge of passing out. Bill was in one corner, thankfully being quiet outside of a few low moans. He _really_ didn't want to kill the man; it was bad enough that he'd killed Jake.

"Why is Bill still alive? Not that I'm upset that he is, so please don't kill him." The question made Clint snort.

"Because, sir, I had to ask myself. Better for SHIELD that he be dead, or better for SHIELD that he be alive to answer questions? Not that he'll know much, they had bribed him pretty good and had tossed out an idle threat or two against his family, from what he was bitching about." Clint glared at Bill. "And yeah, it was worthless. After hearing _you_ threaten me all the time, I'd think I'd know a little about that sort of thing."

"Okay. While we're waiting, start talking me through what happened."

Clint took a breath and glared at Bill again. "Got here, got set up in the safehouse. Real small place, needed more beds for how many of us were there. Old lady across the street started sitting outside with binoculars. Used the reports of the movements to choose a spot. Public market, which sucked. Tried to come up with a few ideas for making everything less public, but the only constant was him visiting that damn market. Should've realized something was up when he did the same damn thing every damn day. Had an idea about Jake, but could never get Paul off alone." He heard some noises and glanced at the ceiling. "Hold on one. Hearing something." He rested his hand on his knee, aiming the gun at the door. He was starting to get the shakes.

Coulson could hear the click of a gun being cocked. "Wish I had my damn _bow_." He waited, hearing indistinct voices. "It's them. See you, boss, because one of 'em's coming at me with a first aid kit and everybody's looking really pissed."

"Sir." A new voice came on the line. "Going to send Barton and Newton back now and stay here for clean-up. If you could get another clean-up crew on the way, that'd be nice. It's...messy."

"Messy how." Coulson hoped that it wasn't because Clint had been hurt too badly.

"Barton's a good fighter, can say that. Brains and bodies all over the damn place, it's like a damn zombie buffet. Jones, if you're going to puke, do it _outside_ the room, will you? Don't need you adding to the stink in here. Call yourself a soldier, you've seen worse. Here's a shooter that you can learn from, one shot, guy's down, move on. _Learn_ that, Peterson, I'm _beyond_ tired of you saying that to be totally sure, need to double-tap the guy. Bullet to the brain, if they're not dead, then they're hurting enough that they're out of the fight; you're just wasting ammo. I know you and Barton were talking shooting the other night, talk to him more, then go figure it all out, don't make me make it an order. Sir, medic's telling me that Barton won't die, slice in his arm, enough bruising that he's just a mass of weird colors, just probably wants food, a chance to sleep in a real bed, and a shower. Soon as an IV can be put in, he's getting enough drugs to knock him out for the flight back. Or...maybe not, from what I'm hearing him say. He's a scary kid, sir. Newton...Barton took out his knee, also was shot through the arm in a couple spots. He'll live. We also caught some other guys that were hiding in corners; may be more, but only cleared to this point."

* * *

"I'm done." Paul was waiting in Medical with Coulson. "I had _two_ traitors on my team. Sure, suspected Jake, but never expected _Bill_. Lost a man, almost got Barton killed _twice_. I just want..." he sighed. "I just want to be able to look my girls in the eye and say that their daddy is a good man. Wife's been after me to retire from the military, anyway, there are civilian jobs open back home."

"Agents?" A doctor hurried out before Coulson had a chance to reply. "Come on back. So, the rundown. Not bad, he'll be up and about as soon as he wants, but I want him to stay overnight. Clean gash in his shoulder, not even going to bother stitching that one up. He's got a hell of a lot of bruises, few other cuts and bumps, and he's going to be sore for a few days, but that's really it. Nothing broken, no sign of concussion, no indication of major internal damage, how, I don't know. Some antibiotics, regular blood checks for a bit to make sure there isn't any lasting damage, and he'll probably want to be careful moving for a bit."

Coulson shook his head, sitting down in a chair next to the bed. "Dammit Barton," he muttered, "I thought you had been told to _not_ piss anybody off."

"Not my fault they couldn't take a joke. Or understand that I didn't know _anything_ beyond the entire script to the Star Wars trilogy. And it was easier to be an ass to try 'n distract myself a little. Heya, sir. How're you doing?" Clint opened one eye, looking at Coulson. "'Cause you're kinda looking like shit." He picked his head up slightly when Coulson started laughing. "Um, sir?" Slowly uncurling and sitting up, Clint looked confused. "Kinda scaring me now? Coulson?"

Taking a deep breath, Coulson calmed down, seeing the bruising on Clint's face and arms, and suspecting that it was just as bad on the rest of his body. "Three days, Clint. That's how long you were gone, and how many days it's been since I got some real sleep in an actual bed, because we were trying to find you, and you're telling me that I look like shit, when you were the one who got beat up. So, want to tell me how all this happened?"

"Bill got the jump on me." Clint frowned, then winced. "Still trying to figure out how that happened, to be honest, because I didn't think he had it in him. Worst thing they did was use a knife on my shoulder, but they really liked using their fists. And feet." He lay back down, curling up again. "So yeah. Passed out a lot, too; they kept on hitting the same places over and over again, few good hits on my head."

"How did you get free? And think the doctors would disagree with what you think is the worst, but you can argue with them about that another time." Coulson very firmly sat on the fact that he wanted to yell at Clint about not watching his back. That would come later.

"That." Clint smirked. "That was the easy part. Whoever tied me up did a _crap_ job of it, and I was able to get at a knot. But it was a matter of waiting for them to leave me alone enough to get loose. After that, more waiting until somebody got close, took their gun. Started shooting. Killed most of them, took down Bill, called you. Probably shouldn't've killed Jake, but my aim was a little shaky, and I didn't want to risk anything. He had a gun. Bill didn't." He looked over to where Paul was standing. "Hey Paul. Have a seat. You're looking like shit, too. What is it with you people and a little stress? _Seriously_. Start meditating or something."

"Barton," Paul shook his head. "This is the second time that you've gotten hurt on my watch."

"Nope." Clint didn't shake his head, but his gaze sharpened. "Don't go blaming yourself. Hell, you helped keep me _alive_. And I can argue that it was _my_ watch, not yours, both times, because you weren't even _there_. I don't count you being on the radio as being anything other than a pain in the ass."

"What?" Paul sat on the edge of Clint's bed. "Barton, I've no clue what you're going on about."

"Simple." Clint yawned. "All I wanted to do for the past however many days was come back and kick your ass, then send you home to your girls, 'cause after the last time, I knew you'd be blaming yourself 'cause the damn rookie got caught and ended up in Medical _again_. They need their dad, and if it's a little hard for them to hug him for a few days because he's black and blue from his neck to his knees, so what. That's something that Coulson _hasn't_ realized I don't think, that I don't think I've ever really regretted much in my life, and totally not since I got here. So I got hurt. Better I get hurt now and learn to deal with it than later, when I may have to be able to work through it all. I now know what getting my neck cut up feels like, I know what it feels like to be tied up and beat up and when a crazy guy start to get a little happy with a knife. Next time, I'll work on getting loose earlier; I could have this time, but wasn't totally sure if I could've done it all and survived. Kinda big on the whole not-dying thing. Do I wish that this hadn't happened? No shit. But it happened, can't go back and call for a do-over. Will I have to deal with shooting people that I had trusted to watch my back? Yeah, probably. Do I regret it? Not really. They were working on fucking over my _home_. The only damn good one I've had, _ever_. So if you're gonna sulk 'n whine, don't do it on my shoulder. Max and Radar're probably feeling just as guilty as you are right now. Bill was their friend, too, not just a teammate. Not to mention, I _knew_ that somebody was coming. Coulson _promised_."

"Clint, when did you get this smart." Coulson shook his head at what Clint had said.

"Dunno." Clint held out his hand. "Blanket. Now." He waited until Coulson handed him one. "Maybe I've picked up more from you than either of us have realized. Maybe they knocked something lose in my head when they were _punching it_. If you're gonna stick around, then be quiet, hard enough sleeping here when they keep the lights on _all the damn time_." He draped the blanket over his head, and the two men watched as he shifted around with a low grumble.

"You know, Phil, I think I just got schooled by the rookie." Paul looked thoughtful. "Although I am going to step down from being on a team. There's a spot open in Florida, and I can just move the family down there."

"Not up to me." Coulson shrugged. "But I'll put in my two cents, if you'll let me know when you put your request in."

"Will you two shut the fuck up!" Clint's voice came from the pile of blankets. "I'm trying to get some _sleep_ here!" His head emerged, glaring at the two. "Because if I'm asleep when they decide that they want me to start taking those damn antibiotics, I'll get to put off feeling even more miserable until after I'm actually _awake_." Grumbling, he pulled the blanket back over his head.

Paul just smiled, shaking his head. Coulson watched as he threw the bed a jaunty salute, then wandered off, looking like he'd just been given a gift. Maybe he had, Coulson mused as he leaned back, propping his leg up on the bed, staring at the pile that was Clint. It would be far to easy for Clint to pin the blame for everything on Paul, but he hadn't. It could even be said that Clint had given Paul a chance to forgive himself. A whisper of noise from the door had him looking up. "Sir." He nodded, moving to stand up. Fury just shook his head, motioning for Coulson to stay seated.

"Heard that he was found." Fury frowned slightly. "How is he?"

Coulson shook his head with a wry smile. "Sore. Bruised. Pissed off." He reached behind him, pulling another blanket from the stack that was kept by each bed and flipping it over Clint's head, hoping that the extra fabric would help keep the noise level down. "Gave Paul Greeves a good talking to."

Fury snorted, turning for the door. "Let me know when your problem child is awake and willing to be sociable." He ignored the faint "dammit, why won't you let a man _sleep_!" coming from the bed, although Coulson could see the hint of a smile as he paused in the doorway. "And, Agent Coulson? I told you so." With a nod, he left.

"Oh, that's _it_." Clint snapped, shoving the blankets off. "Coulson, you've got two mostly working legs, the _last_ time I tried to get out of bed before I was told I could they damn well _sat_ on me, so could you _please_ go get the nurse so I can actually _sleep_?"

"Don't worry, Agent Barton." Coulson recognized the nurse in the doorway, but couldn't quite place her name. "Only a week's worth, this time, complete with some anti-nausea meds and some more painkillers. And because I heard your ranting, sleeping pill chaser and a reminder that we do have call bells and they do work."

"Thanks, Meg." Clint worked himself into a sitting position. "As long as people don't _sit_ on me, I'll try to behave. For now."

Meg let out a low whistle as she moved closer to the bed. "Looks impressive. Am I good to get a blood pressure and all that, or should I wait until you're asleep?" She handed Clint the cup of pills, before pulling a can of ginger ale out of her pocket.

"Whenever," Clint shrugged. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the nurse, then quickly finished the entire can. "And, um, sorry, kinda used your name. Was trying to be a smart ass, didn't work too well. Obviously."

Meg watched as he curled back up in bed and fell asleep, before straightening the blankets and looking over at Coulson. "Watch him, okay? Call bell is on the wall if anything happens or you need something."


	25. Chapter 25

Clint's brain catches up to the party. Poor Clint.

* * *

Coulson had dozed off, but was woken by a shout and the feeling of the bed moving. Opening his eyes, he frowned; Clint had vanished. A low noise had him looking at the corner of the room. "Damn." Moving as quickly as he could, he went over to the door where he could see a tech about to enter. "Wait." Pausing, he took a moment to assess the situation, and realized that while it might not have been ideal, at least there wasn't anything within Clint's reach that could be used as a weapon. "Okay. Get me the nurse, but tell her to stay back. I want to try something first."

Crouching down where he knew that he'd be seen, Coulson took a deep breath and started talking, figuring that if it had worked for other situations, it might work now. "Clint. It's time to wake up. It's just a nightmare, Clint, time to wake up." He kept talking, hearing somebody come into the room behind him and move to the bed. A quick glance behind him showed the nurse hooking up a set of restraints. With a frown, Coulson turned back to Clint. "Come on, Clint, time to snap out of it. That's an order." Exasperated at the lack of response, he decided to try one other thing, and lowered his voice slightly, trying to sound comforting. "Come on, son, it's just a nightmare, let's get you back in bed. Nothing bad's going to happen, honest. I won't let it." He was surprised by the sudden movement when Clint lunged forward and grabbed at Coulson's hand, burying his face in the older man's shoulder. Coulson could feel the shudders running through Clint's body, and he used his free hand to lightly rub Clint's back. "That's better," he soothed. "Let's go." Wincing slightly as he stood up, Coulson gently directed Clint back over to the bed. When the nurse moved to put the restraints on, Coulson shook his head. "_Don't_. It'll be okay, as long as you go and get me some coffee."

"Sir," the nurse started, "rules are clear about this sort of thing; he could be a danger to himself or somebody else." He paused, and glanced over at the bed when Clint rolled over. He hadn't let go of Coulson's hand.

"And there's a very good chance it could also make everything worse." Awkwardly, Coulson shifted his chair around, freeing his hand and placing the other one on Clint's shoulder. "I'll take responsibility for anything that happens. Now, coffee?"

* * *

Clint woke up, feeling a hand on his shoulder, smelling coffee, and hearing the television. Shifting, he felt the hand tighten slightly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make itself known. Opening his eyes, he yawned. "And you get on me about putting my feet on the bed."

Coulson opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the door opening. "Good morning, Agent Coulson, Clint," Dr. Beeks nodded, holding a tray. "Intercepted the nurse for you."

Clint frowned slightly, looking over at Coulson. "Sir, do I gotta?" He sighed slightly as Coulson took his hand away. It had actually felt a little nice. And safe. At the looks he was getting, he sighed again. "_Fine_." Sulky teenager still hadn't been banned, so he could use that all he wanted.

Coulson stood up and shook his head. "You know the rules, Clint. I'm going to go get a nap and do some real work now. Doctor."

Clint watched as Coulson left the room, then glanced at Beeks as he slowly sat up. "That's mine?"

"Yep." Beeks placed the tray on the bed, then sat down, watching as Clint bolted the food. When it looked like the medications were going to be ignored, he reached forward and tapped them. "These too." At Clint's grimace, he nodded. "Lemme guess, give you problems?" Grabbing at the cup, he took a look inside, then dumped them all out on the tray. "Has anybody ever told you about these?"

"No?" Clint peered at the pills. "Just that they're handing me a bunch of stuff and to take it when I'm told to. Got some papers once, but never got a chance to read them before I ended up back here and I don't know where they went."

"Well then. Folks are slacking, I see." Beeks started pointing. "So, these two are the antibiotic. The other three...these two are Tylenol with some stuff for a bit of an added kick, which means that this one is for your stomach. You should really be getting that one a little bit before the antibiotic, let it have a chance to work, but that can be hard to time right, especially if you fight them on taking things. Cooperate, and it'll all go easier, you'll have a bit more control, too. Bet you're missing that, yeah? Especially after the past few days?"

"Yeah. And that's kinda cool." Clint suddenly looked up. "I thought you were a shrink. How do you know all that, about the meds?"

"I'm a psychiatrist. Doctor Jim Beeks, MD. Four years of medical school, same as the docs who patch you up physically, then internship and residency and recruitment by SHIELD somewhere in there." Beeks leaned back, putting on an air of nonchalance. "Pharmacology is part of the basic med school curriculum."

"So do you ever do, like, medical stuff?" Clint poked at the pills, then swallowed the one that Beeks had said would help keep him from puking and the Tylenol. He'd try the suggestion out.

"I heal the mind. I can check your vital signs, but haven't had to do surgery in years. It's just like the operatives here. You've got the same basic training as any of the teams, but then you've got different specialized training. Right? And actually, arm. Make life easier for the nurses, especially since I'm going to go and do some yelling." Grabbing the blood pressure cuff, he waited for Clint to answer before starting to inflate it. One advantage to being in a room; it was all electronic.

"Yeah, but you don't have to deal with the medical docs trying to _kill_ you." Clint was busy shredding his napkin. "And then having to shoot them and then having fucking _nightmares_ about it."

"No, although the yearly basketball game between Medical and Psych can get pretty crazy. Which reminds me, I need to start making noise about getting this year's team together. We've a month or so now. Why upset about nightmares?"

"Because I always fail in them, and end up dead? And...I _liked_ Bill. He was cool, if a little pushy about shit. Always up for some time in the gym, if he was around, even though I always beat him. And then he held a gun to my head and smacked me around." Clint reached up, pulling off the blood pressure cuff, letting it drop to the floor.

"Pretty big breach of trust, there, I'm guessing. Was that all that happened, them smacking you around?" Glancing up at the monitor, Beeks nodded. "And congratulations, your heart is beating and you've got a blood pressure. I can definitively say that you're alive."

"Yeah, pretty much. I don't even know what they _wanted_, because after a while the questions stopped, but they kept on _hitting_ and _hitting_ and _kicking_."

"Ah yes, one of those 'the beatings will continue until morale improves' things." Beeks didn't watch Clint, choosing to glance at the TV.

"Or until I stop being a smart ass, or until they realize that I really _don't_ _know_." Clint shifted, glancing at the door. "Why'd you go into being a shrink? Aren't there better options out there?"

"Probably," Beeks shrugged, "but it's a thing in my family. You see that sometimes, professions running in families, but it's been changing a bit over the past couple decades." He glanced at the clock, then pointed at the remaining pills. "Antibiotic too, Clint. Want another fun fact about that?"

"Sure, why not." Clint picked up a pill and was rolling it around in his fingers, staring at it. "And I'm still trying to figure some of that family stuff out. Go by what you said, I should be the town drunk someplace in the middle of nowhere, working just enough at the local garage to get whatever crap is cheapest. Or a farmer. Although Coulson's done more for me than everybody who was my genetic family ever did, so dunno." He didn't see Beeks looking slightly triumphant.

"So, antibiotics. Don't work on the cold or the flu, because those are viruses, and don't have what antibiotics attack. It's also in the name. Antibiotic. Against life. Viruses aren't living. Why do you think that you're here, then, and not working on a farm or in a garage?"

"Neat." Clint looked thoughtful, then swallowed the pills dry. "Maybe because I was only there for five years? How long does it take to get, get, damn. Don't know the word." He sounded frustrated. "Indoctrinated? No, that's not it. Dunno. How long did it take you to decide that you wanted to be a shrink?"

"Years. Thought about playing baseball for a living, but didn't have enough talent to get anything outside of a small college scholarship. However, after eighteen years of watching my family argue mental health, I just fell into the pre-med courses at school, picked up a few summer jobs working as an orderly, then applied to med school and got in. And I'm not quite sure that there's a word for it." Beeks shrugged. "You can do some research later, when you get a chance. Speaking of that, what did you do if you were only around your parents for five years?"

"Orphanage. Circuses. Learned a few tricks, hard not to." Clint glanced around, grabbing at the remote. "Sweet, they've gotten the TV stuff fixed." He settled back, watching cartoons. "Was how I actually got loose; watch enough, you learn how to do things like untie knots." He paused. "Not that it was a fancy knot; it was almost like they _wanted_ me to get loose."

"Your definition of fancy might be a little different from other people, especially if you learned stuff in the circus." Beeks pointed out. "So hey, another stupid question. Nurse passed along that you had a bit of a tough night. Couldn't sleep?"

"Nah, they gave me a sleeping pill because people kept on coming in and wouldn't shut up, and they _never_ turn the lights out. I just had a nightmare and I couldn't wake up, and I kept on getting killed, over and over and over again. Pretty sure Coulson helped, 'cause could've sworn I heard his voice and that's when I was able to get loose and, yanno, _not_ die, because he's _Coulson_ and I _know_ he's safe. Also kinda remember trying to climb the walls, but not quite sure of that."

Beeks frowned. "Okay. Feel like that right now?" At Clint's headshake, he nodded. "Will you let somebody know if you do? Bit of a responsibility, but folks around here have a thing about people flipping out." He thought for a moment, turning to look at Clint. "Clint. Look at me."

"Yeah?" Clint turned to stare at the psychiatrist curiously.

"Think if you swing by my office tomorrow, I'll get more out of you than half-answers and silence? This situation is a little bit different than the last time you got hurt, and I want to make sure that you're doing okay." Beeks could see Clint about to argue, and thought quickly. "How about this. I'll let you ask questions, too. Seems like you like learning stuff, right? So answer mine, and don't tell me what you think I want to hear, and I'll answer yours. Within reason." Mentally, he shook his head at how he needed to deal with Barton. Bartering. "So, deal?"

"Same rules apply? Nothing personal, just about the mission?"

"Well, this one might get a little bit more personal, but yes, I'll try to keep it just on the mission. Again, deal? I need to go do stuff."

"Whatever."

Beeks left the room, searching out the nurse. "Hey. Meg, right? So, Barton."

She sighed, standing up. "What did he do now? Didn't hear any screaming, don't see any blood, you're not in tears, he's not trying to sneak out...the two of you were just talking." She pointed at a video screen showing the room.

"Yeah. Who's actually _talked_ to him about everything that goes on here?"

"We gave him written information on all this a while ago, same as with everybody." Meg sat down again, frowning at the doctor. "And I'm not quite sure I like what you're implying."

"What I'm _saying_, out loud, is that somewhere, somebody or somebodies screwed up by making a couple big assumptions, and nobody followed through on making sure he actually understood. Which he doesn't, by the way." Beeks dug in his pocket, pulling out a pen. "I want his chart. Now. And I got vitals for you."

Silent, Meg handed the binder over and watched as the psychiatrist scribbled in it. "Doctor, what are your orders, then?"

"Education, privacy, and to alert either Agent Coulson and myself if anything happens. Use your judgment, but checks every 15 minutes if you're worried, hourly the rest of the time, or give him a room where you can see in from the desk. Lights out at night." He flipped through the chart. "He's probably going to flip out once or twice. He falls asleep, expect another nightmare. Do not try to physically restrain him. His type, he'll try to find a corner to hide in, so let him and back off." He started writing again. "Unless there's a medical reason to keep him, cut him loose. Now, nurse, go do your damn job and show some of that common sense that seems to have vanished when it comes to Agent Barton." He signed the chart and closed it, handing it back to Meg. "Understand?"

"Yes, Doctor." Meg's face was carefully blank as she reached out and turned off the screen showing Clint's room.

"Hey." Beeks reached out and covered Meg's hand with his. "Comedy of errors, understand? I'm just mad at the situation and how it came about. He's _always_ going to be a pain in the ass, that's just who he is, but talk to him and tell him the reasons behind everything. It'll help. I talked to him about the meds; he'll probably be better about those now, especially since he's learned that he can have a little control over it. That's the biggest thing right now. He _needs_ a feeling of control."

* * *

"Agent Barton," Meg started as she entered the room. "I'm guessing that you've got some questions? Out of bed, please."

"Nope." Clint shook his head. He watched as the nurse moved around the room, climbing out of the bed when she gave him a look. Leaning against the wall, he saw her pulling stuff off the bed, tossing it at the door. "What's all that for?"

Meg didn't look at him. "Orders. You flip out, we just get to call Agent Coulson and Beeks." She sighed. "And on behalf of the entire nursing staff here, Agent Barton, I'm sorry. We didn't realize some things, and you paid the price for our assumptions." She quickly made the bed. "So, the room. Call bell. Controls for the bed. TV, remote control. Phone. You don't have to stay in bed, hell, you don't even have to stay in here, but you're restricted to this area. Feel free to come hang out at the desk, and that'll be true for any future stays, unless you're told otherwise. Doctor needs to see you first, but as long as you don't decide to die on us, doubt that you'll be here for very long today."

Clint slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. "Knew some of that. And can you call me Clint, please? Getting called Agent Barton is making me a little twitchy right now."

"Sure, Clint. Twitchy is bad?" Meg glanced around, then sat on the bed. "Don't tell my boss, okay?"

Clint grinned. "Only if I can get a shower and maybe some real clothes. And yeah, twitchy is probably kinda bad."

Meg just looked at Clint. "Head. Here. Now."

"What about the rest of me?" Clint obeyed, sitting down next to the nurse. He couldn't restrain his flinch when she reached out to touch his face, jerking back and almost falling off the bed. "Hey! Back off!"

"_Easy_ there, Clint." Meg soothed. "Sorry. I do need to get a look at a couple things first, though." She thought for a moment, then held her hand out. "Need you to put it so that I can hold onto your chin." He complied, and she nodded, gently moving in to take a closer look, then looking at his shoulder. "Okay. Clean clothes are in the drawers next to the sink in the bathroom. Go shower, young man, and then come find me."

Meg jumped when Clint just appeared in a chair next to her. "Didn't feel like wearing a shirt?"

"Didn't find any in there. And there weren't any socks either."

Meg hummed. "Well, no use in wasting the opportunity to finish checking you out and draw a little blood, then I'll show you the secret room full of clean stuff and slap another bandage on that shoulder. I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm doing, and you tell me to stop if it's starting to stress you out or hurt too much; we can take all day if needed. Good? Good."

* * *

"Clint, can't you sit in a chair like a normal person?" Coulson had glanced in Clint's room, found it empty, and so headed to the desk, finding his target perched in a chair, looking through an anatomy book with Meg.

"Course not." Clint looked up with a small smile. "More comfortable like this. And Meg got me clean clothes _and_ let me have a shower, so she's my favorite person of the day right now. She's also letting me have stuff to do. And ice cream with lunch, and I'm not stuck in a bed, either."

"This is certainly different than the last time you were here," Coulson observed. "Why?"

"Beeks." Meg had a bitter twist to her mouth. "He actually remembered that he's got powers here, too, and he went and used them. Psych doesn't _do_ that, they just call our docs and it all gets worked out that way."

"He told me a bit about the meds I got this morning. Even gave a suggestion for taking them." Clint shrugged. "Think he sounded a little pissed, but dunno."

"Oh yes, Clint, he was very pissed." Meg carefully reached out, turning pages in the book. "Here, take a look at how the arteries run in the leg. The adults need to go talk about you."

"'Kay. Think the doctor'll show up soon?" Clint nodded, staring at the pictures.

"Hopefully. I've called him three times now." Meg stood up, beckoning to Coulson. "Well?"

Coulson followed the nurse slightly down the hall. "What. Happened."

"Like I said. Beeks. He came storming out of Clint's room, wrote a few orders, then walked off after telling _me_ to do _my_ damn job. Latest rules about Barton. He flips out, we back off and call you and Beeks. He's almost flipped out five times today. Deal with it."

"Look," Coulson shook his head. "He just spent _three days_ held hostage. Two of the people there were SHIELD agents who had turned. He killed one, subdued the other and spent probably about an hour dealing with being given excuses before the rescue team got there. He was _caught_ by one of those two. Those injuries weren't because he was in a fight. Not to mention, the last time he had to stay more than an hour here, he was physically restrained in one of the most humiliating ways possible, insulted, and ordered around. Can you blame him for being a little on edge?"

"Oh. I knew some of that, but not that it was two of ours that were involved, and I _know_ how to work with the folks who are like that." Meg frowned. "Still," A bang and a shriek had the two of them turning, seeing a tech standing there and a distinct lack of Clint. "Some of the new folks, however..." she let her voice trail off as she hurried down the hall. "Susan, what happened? Where did Barton run off to?"

Coulson ignored the hysterical babbling, moving around the desk. Not seeing Clint under it, he looked up. "One of these days, they'll build us a damn boat without open ceilings," he muttered, spotting Clint. "Come on down, Clint. That's not a very good place to sit." Clint didn't move, and Coulson frowned slightly, sitting on the edge of the desk. "Let's go. Sooner you come down, sooner you can get out of this place." Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Meg shaking her finger at the tech, who was in tears. "Could you two back up some? And call over to Psych? Thank you." He waited until they were out of sight before looking back up at Clint with a sigh. "Clint, would you _please_ stop acting like you were raised in the circus. You're scaring the tourists."

That got a response, even if it wasn't completely the one he was hoping for. Clint dropped to the floor, a blank look on his face, and sat on the desk next to Coulson, leaning up against the older man.

"Agent Coulson. What happened?" Beeks pulled up a chair, sitting in front of Clint. He didn't move his gaze away from the archer.

"Suspect that the tech said or did something." Coulson rolled his eyes. "I was talking with the nurse. This one ended up in the ceiling."

"Okay." Beeks nodded. "Hey, Clint. It's Doctor Beeks. Can you look at me, please? Good. Thank you." If he was unsettled by the deadly stare Clint was giving him, Coulson thought, he was well-practiced in not showing it. "So, guess you didn't get much of a warning now, did you?" A raised voice from further down the hall had both Coulson and Beeks looking over with frowns. "Clint, I need to go talk to somebody, I'll be right back. Is that okay? Agent Coulson will stay here, he'll keep on talking."

Coulson kept talking as ordered, and he suddenly felt a shudder run through Clint's body. "Sorry, sir." Clint's voice was small, and Coulson could feel him try to seem even smaller as Dr. Beeks returned. "Heya, doc."

"Clint." Beeks nodded, sitting down. "How're you feeling?"

"Like the whiny little ass I keep on calling Paul." Clint gently scrubbed at his eyes with a sleeve. "And like _crap_. You know that medical stuff. Can I have something for that?"

"You can ask. Remember, I may be a medical doctor, but I heal what goes on in here." Letting Clint see his hand, Beeks lightly tapped Clint's forehead. "Doctor's here, wants to see you, but after that you'll be able to leave if you want. He's also very, very sorry that he didn't make it over here sooner. Can't schedule emergencies, though." Beeks glanced around, then lowered his voice. "He's on Medical's basketball team, and really can't play ball. Stitch you up, yeah, make a free-throw, not so much. So please don't hurt him badly enough that he'll have to sit out the game. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Dunno." Clint yawned. "Was looking at an anatomy book. Next thing I know, I'm sitting here. Totally okay one minute, now I just want to sleep for a week. Can I do that in my own bed?"

"Only if you promise to come see me first thing tomorrow." Beeks stood up. "10 AM. Deal?"

"Already _told_ you deal. And that's not first thing. That's _lunch_." Clint didn't feel like moving, so he didn't, and stayed leaning against Coulson while the medical doctor, moving very carefully, walked up. It was almost funny, the way the doctor acted, but he just felt so out of it and on edge that he really couldn't care and just answered the questions listlessly. "Good, sir?"

"Yeah. Let's go, Clint." Coulson stood up and started to head for the exit, Clint following close behind, only to be stopped by Meg.

"Clint, have a couple things for you first before you can escape." She held out a small bag and a stack of papers. "Meds, and information on them all. Wrote down everything that you'll want to do and look for, but I'm telling you right now to just relax for the next few days." She took a hard look at Clint, then nodded. "Hand?" When Clint held out his hand, she pulled out a marker and scribbled a number on it. "_That's_ for the desk back here if you've any questions or problems. I'll be here for the next two days, Jason has nights, and then it'll be Darla and Tia. I'll let them all know that they need to be around. Susan?"

Clint didn't look at the tech as she babbled an apology at him, staring off into the distance instead. A small cough from Coulson made Clint shake his head and look at the tech. "No worries." He nodded at the two women, then started walking again. "Sir, I'm gonna go lock myself in my room now. Beyond coming out to talk to Beeks, 'cause I promised I'd show up tomorrow, I don't think I want to show my face unless it's the end of the world."

Coulson followed Clint, thankful that the archer didn't just run off. "Okay. Think you'll be able to manage debriefing and writing a report by Monday?"

"Dunno." Clint shrugged, and then didn't say another word until they were standing at his door. "C'mon in." He went to open it, then his shoulders slumped. "Crap." His voice was brittle.

Coulson held out a key. "Here. I keep spares of all the important ones in my office. The stuff that you left at the safe house in Montreal is on its way back, but unfortunately, it'll take a couple more days. Dealing with two countries' postal services and customs, it can get a little slow." His attempt at a joke made the corner of Clint's mouth twitch.

"Leave the jokes to those of us who can pull 'em off." He accepted the key, opened his door, then dropped everything on his desk. "I'll get it back to you when I get mine back."

"Keep it. I've got a dozen made up just for your room." Coulson followed Clint in, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of the desk chair. "Two dozen for mine. Yes, I do tend to misplace my keys." That got the response that he was hoping for; if Clint's smile was a little forced, it was still a smile.

"What happens if you get locked out of your office?" Clint moved to his wardrobe, pulling out some clothes, then heading towards the bathroom.

"_That's_ when I call security." Coulson raised his voice to be heard through the door, moving to where Clint kept his movies. "Less embarrassing, being locked out of your office. Then I usually find them in the bottom of a drawer someplace."

"Yeah, can see that." Clint sat down next to Coulson. The first time that Coulson had seen how Clint kept his videos, he'd been surprised. Instead of them simply being shoved into a box, Clint had very carefully sorted them out by genre – then alphabetized them. Coulson just shrugged it off as one of the archer's little idiosyncrasies.

"One month." Coulson moved over to the desk chair, letting Clint choose something to watch. "It took me, on average, a month to stop jumping at shadows when I was taken hostage, and it has happened a few times. The first time, I had a support system the likes of which you wouldn't believe, and it still took me a week to say anything. Two days until I even got out of bed. My girlfriend did me the consideration of waiting until I was feeling better to break up. She said she couldn't take the stress of dating a guy who would just vanish without a word. She married the guy who'd been the high school quarterback when we were in school about three months later. My mother went, said that it was all very pretty, then asked why I couldn't have made it work." Clint didn't respond, but Coulson could see that he was listening intently. "Last I heard, she had three kids with a fourth on the way and was incredibly miserable with her life. That was a while ago." He sighed. "It's like a bad country song, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Clint nodded, not looking away from the movies. "I guess."

"What I'm trying to say, Clint, is that you're doing a lot better than would've been expected." Coulson leaned forward. "And that we, _I_, want you to know that you've got people here to help you, and that we're all _damn_ proud of you." He didn't expect Clint's reaction, which was to burst into tears. "Clint? You okay?"

Clint didn't respond, feeling embarrassed at his reaction and that he couldn't stop. He felt Coulson sit down next to him and curled up against the older man, just letting all the pain, frustration, and fear of the past few days out. He felt Coulson's hand lightly stroke his head, then rest on his shoulder, and tried to calm down enough to listen.

"It's hard, isn't it." Coulson had an idea of what was going on in Clint's head. "Lots of fear, lots of uncertainty, no control over anything except if you're going to keep your eyes open or not, say something or not, and sometimes you don't even get to choose that. No real idea of time, or what's going on. No idea if the next person to walk through the door will be there to help or hurt." He felt Clint nod. "You didn't do anything wrong, Clint, and you did a lot of things _right_. I spent some of today in interrogations. Most people don't recommend being a smart ass the way you were, but the men brought back said that most of the people there saw you as being pretty amusing, at least until you got loose. They were also rather…impressed by your fighting skills." He paused, sensing that Clint was starting to get himself back under control. "And I won't lie, it doesn't get easier, it just gets easier to hide it, to cover up the fact that you're liable to stick a knife in somebody if they look at you funny." He let his voice go dry. "Although I'd appreciate it if I didn't have to follow you around with a bunch of bandages." Feeling Clint pull away slightly, he lightly squeezed Clint's shoulder and dropped his hand. "Feeling better?"

"Not really." Clint shook his head. "But I will."

"Okay." Coulson nodded. "Would you like to watch some of the interrogations tomorrow? Just have to sit there, watching video screens. You might even pick some things up." He stood up. "And I think that I've a movie that you'll find funny. Want me to go get it?"

"Sure," Clint shrugged. "None of mine look good right now. And yeah, I'd like to watch some tomorrow." He watched as Coulson walked out of the room, before going to splash some water on his face. A knock on the door forced a grin out as Coulson walked back in, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Forgot my keys." Coulson grabbed his jacket, turning for the door again. "Sure, laugh it up, Clint."


	26. Chapter 26

Clint's not crazy.

* * *

Clint stared at the screen showing Bill. "Bastard," he muttered under his breath, leaning forward to turn up the sound, then curled up in the chair. "Fucking bastard." A cough from behind him was the only warning he got before the chair was pulled backwards and Clint found himself scrambling to stay upright. "What the _fuck_!" He snapped, trying to control his breathing. "Don't fucking _do_ that!"

"I run a respectable organization here, so keep your damn feet off my damn furniture. Understand?"

Clint just glared at Fury, shoving his panic down. "Whatever. You need something, _sir_?"

"Yes. Thank you for not killing Mr. Newton. And, Agent Barton, learn to watch your back."

"Director," Coulson frowned, seeing Clint close his eyes and breathe deeply, shoulders tense. "I warned you, sir." He moved, standing between Clint and Fury. "Clint. Hitting Director Fury isn't allowed." He glanced at Fury. "If you don't mind, sir, you're about to break Barton, who hasn't been cleared by _anybody_ yet, so please leave before he starts reacting." He looked back at Clint. "_Relax_, Clint. Incidentally, he'll be fine, sir, thank you for asking, he just needs a few more days to get everything settled in his head."

Fury nodded and headed for the door. "So the boy gets his PTSD early. Better than having to wait. I want to talk to him later, Agent Coulson."

"I don't know if it's exactly a good thing that we're okay about people having that," Coulson muttered, watching Clint calm down. "This is one time that you're allowed to ignore Fury, Clint. He was just here to annoy."

"PTSD?" Clint was feeling distinctly annoyed. "Again, I'm not crazy. Little nuts, but haven't met somebody here who isn't."

"Show me an operative without at _least_ a touch of it, Clint, and I'll show you somebody who has never actually been out in the field. Everybody hopes that it'll just manifest itself through nightmares, rather than night terrors and flashbacks in potentially delicate situations. I wouldn't be surprised if Director Fury continues to try and push your buttons; talk with Beeks about working on desensitization. That is one thing that I do outright refuse to have anything to do with, since it's very much part of Psych's job description. You probably already _had_ some, just because of what happened to you as a kid."

"Whatever," Clint shrugged, not wanting to show his interest, before sitting back down. "What's gonna happen to Bill?"

"After we're done with him?" Coulson moved to stand behind Clint. "He'll be sent back to the military, tried in a closed tribunal, and then sent to prison for the rest of his natural life. Don't know where, Leavenworth is the most likely. But since SHIELD pulls a lot of people from the military, an agreement was worked out pretty early on; this is considered a very long-term posting, and they're still subject to most of the rules of their particular branch. He's not going to be allowed to plead anything but guilty to treason, so that's an automatic life sentence."

"Will he be allowed visitors?" Clint glanced up at Coulson. "Not that, yanno, I want to see him, but I did tell him that I'd at least whine a little, so here's my whining. Can't say that I don't keep my word."

"That you do, Clint." Coulson nodded. "And yes, he'll be allowed to communicate with his family."

"Are you military, sir?" Clint was staring at the screens.

"Different path, Clint." Coulson nodded. "For a little, yes, but not any longer. Can't get rid of me that easily."

Hearing his name from the speakers caught Clint's attention, and he leaned forward, turning the sound back up. Bill was sitting across from a man in a suit, looking depressed.

"What was that about Agent Barton, Mr. Newton?"

Clint didn't miss the slight accents on the titles. Bill's flinch was obvious. "Just...tell him I'm sorry. Clint's a good kid. I didn't want to have to do all that."

"Liar." Clint muttered. "Pretty damn hard punches you threw, for somebody who 'didn't want to do all that.' Didn't see them holding a gun to _your_ head. And you didn't have to _kick_ me, too." He glanced at Coulson. "Couple things are clicking, now. I think he's been turned for a while."

"Why do you say that?" Coulson leaned against the desk, reaching behind him to turn the volume down. "Right now, nothing shows that he was doing this entirely of his own free will or for more than a couple months."

"Because." Clint didn't stop staring at the screen. "He's asked me a few questions here and there, about what I thought about working for SHIELD, if I was actually happy with what I was learning about what all went on here. And, remember those zombie-things? First time I went out?" At Coulson's nod, he continued, "there was a lot more security there than anticipated. _Everybody_ said that."

"Huh." Coulson frowned, then suddenly stood up. "Will you be okay, I need to go talk to somebody. Ten minutes."

Clint glanced over at the techs, who were very carefully ignoring the two men, before turning the volume back up. He nodded. "Yeah." He shifted as Coulson left the room, keeping the door in his peripheral vision.

"Newton." Coulson had joined the guy interrogating Bill. "How. Long." Clint couldn't help but smile slightly; he could tell that Coulson was mad. "Thank you, Rick, if you could excuse us for a few minutes? Now, Newton, I've got two options for you right now. One, you answer my questions. Two, I allow Barton in here. You've been lying through your teeth, and it stops now. Understand?"

"My mother," Bill started.

"Your mother died three years ago of natural causes. HYDRA hasn't developed anything that causes melanoma. Next excuse?" Coulson sat down. "One sister, married with two kids, and your father can't even remember his own name, let alone that he's got a son and hasn't for the past decade; you haven't even gone to see him for the past seven years or so. No wife, no kids. No girlfriend or boyfriend. Few aunts, uncles, and cousins. Grandparents all dead. Newton, you should have realized that you'd be caught and believe me, we know all about you. Now. The truth. Barton's not that far away, and I'm sure that Rabbit would love to get out of his PT session for a more...practical exercise. I understand that today is to be spent almost completely on the treadmill, which always makes him mad. Now. How. Long."

"Five years." Bill's voice was flat. "They did threaten my parents at first, sent me all sorts of pictures. Then money for my mother's treatment, because insurance covered damn near nothing." He looked up, glaring. "And they made _sense_, you know? And they only asked about the little things, like how people were recruited to SHIELD, stuff about the US military, some R and D, who wasn't happy with life here. At first. Then yeah, base staffing information. And locations. Passed along a few messages. Didn't know that Max and Rabbit were going to Baja over Thanksgiving, or else I would've tried to get them to not go. It wasn't a lot at first, just really picked up more over the past year."

Coulson nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head. "Continue being honest, or I _will_ let some very angry men in here. And I _will_ turn off all recording devices we have for this room. Incidentally, Mr. Newton. Clint whined at me about you getting visiting hours. I will think about it. Another reason to cooperate. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah." Bill mumbled.

"Yeah, _what_, Newton."

"Yes, _sir_."

Clint forced a grin when Coulson returned. "That was awesome. Can I be you when I grow up?"

"Part of me sincerely hopes not, if only because it would mean we'd be down our only operative with your skill set, and we'd have all those arrows lying around that wouldn't get used. Don't you have someplace to be?" Coulson pointedly glanced at his watch.

"Yeah," Clint nodded, pushing himself up from the chair with a wince. "Ow. Stiff." He glanced over at Coulson. "Um, sir? Do you maybe think you could come with?" He dug in his pocket for his painkillers. "I don't feel quite up to walking around by myself looking like this and I'm kinda nervous about just sitting in Beeks' office without backup. My back is always to the door, and I just don't feel like it's _safe_ in there right now."

"You're going to need to learn to trust him more than you do now, and that includes just sitting in his office. Even with your back to the door." Coulson nodded, moving for the door. "Out of everybody here, there are three people that require your unconditional trust at this point in time. Fury. Me. Beeks. Simple as that. I'm sure you know why Fury and I are on the list, but why do you think I'm also telling you to trust Beeks just as much, if not everybody from Psych?"

"Dunno." Clint wrapped his arms around him, walking through the halls staring at the floor. "But lemme work it through. He's...here to help? I mean, sure, I trust him, even a bit more than most everybody else here, but how do I know that he's actually going to keep everything quiet, is the problem. He told me yesterday that when he was growing up, there were a lotta discussions when his family got together about all that psych stuff. And I don't feel comfortable about talking about stuff other than missions with him, but thinking about talking to any of the other shrinks doesn't feel _right_, either."

"Has he done anything to make you not trust him?" Coulson watched Clint shake his head out of the corner of his eye. "And ask him about just what, exactly, was discussed. Maybe," and here Coulson frowned slightly, "maybe we can combine your initial debriefing with your psych session. You will need to ask if that's okay with Beeks, but I'm sure that he's flexible. And tell him about how you feel sitting in there, since he might have some alternatives. But I want him to be on that list because there will be situations that you'll need help to deal with, and sometimes psych is the only one who can. I will tell you, again, that my skill sets do not include helping you learn coping methods. As almost all of the shrinks here say, they're here to cure mental traumas, the people like you and I are here to create them, in one manner or another."

* * *

"Sure, let's take a walk." Beeks didn't look surprised at any of Clint's requests. "With the knowledge that I do want to keep all this private, where'd you like to go? I am sorry, though, I'm vetoing adding in a simultaneous debriefing session, since I just want to start getting you settled a bit more, see if we can't start preventing any more flashbacks. Agent Coulson can stay close, but he's not to be involved in anything but an emergency. Those are my rules to protect my patients." He looked a little uncomfortable. "I do ask that we stay away from the flight deck. I've a bit of a thing about heights."

Clint huffed in amusement. "Me too. Love 'em." He ran through where he felt the safest and most relaxed outside of his room. "Range."

"Noise and privacy." Coulson shook his head. "How about that observation room that you like to watch the flight deck from."

Coulson watched, amused, as Beeks took one look out the windows and hurriedly turned his back on them, while Clint sat down and stared, one hand reaching out to rest lightly on the glass. Finding a corner to sit in, he settled down and opened the work he'd brought.

"I think, Clint," the psychiatrist's voice was shaky, "next time we can just move some chairs, maybe?"

"Yeah, but up here I can _see_." Clint wasn't consciously paying attention to anybody in the room. "I can see almost _everything_."

"You like that, then?" Beeks had managed to relax, Coulson noticed, and was already writing notes. "So, how'd you do last night?"

"Kinda lost it. Coulson helped. Then we watched Clue. And I love being able to see everything and being up high like this is _safe_, yanno? This room, there's really only one way in, and you 'n Coulson'll warn me if anybody else comes in."

"I see. How did Coulson help? And hey, sleep okay?"

"Let me cry on his shoulder and if that makes me sound like a girl then I _don't care_. And he _gets_ it. Maybe even better than anybody else here, or at least he can fake it well enough that I believe him. Slept like crap. Kept on rolling over and hitting sore spots that woke me up. Painkillers didn't help. Shouldn't they? I mean, it's in their name. Pain. Killers. Killer of pain. I was feeling pain, why didn't they kill it? Not to mention, kept on seeing _their_ faces. Oh yeah. Coulson told me to ask. You said that your family talked all this psych stuff. Did they ever, um, talk about the people they helped?"

Coulson had to hide his smile as he listened to Beeks patiently work with Clint, allowing the archer his verbal tangents, but still staying firmly in control of the conversation. Impressed, he started jotting down some notes. He wondered if Clint even realized what he was saying, and if anybody from Psych might be interested in assisting with interrogations. A note was dropped in his lap, and he glanced up to see Beeks practically run from the room. "Done?" He stood up, walking over to where Clint was still staring out the window.

"Yeah. Gotta see him in a few days." Clint glanced at Coulson. "Didja know, the deck crews have been having some sort of competition down there? I've been watching them for," he glanced at his watch. "The past two hours? Huh."

Coulson laughed softly as he sat down, feeling Clint shift slightly closer. "Barton, you're sounding like the little kid who was never let outside to play, and I highly doubt that was you." He looked over. "You know, you are surprisingly tactile at times." He pointedly glanced at where their sleeves were touching. "I will make exceptions, such as right now, but this is not to be a constant thing, understand?"

"I know." Clint nodded. "Just need to know that I've got somebody to watch my back when I'm not feeling like normal."

"I see. Now, what were your plans for the rest of the day? I have some other things to do. You're welcome to go back and watch more interrogations, laze around doing nothing, you can even just go sit in my office...day is all yours."

"Really?" Clint sounded surprised. "You're not going to tell me what to do?"

Coulson just looked at Clint. "You've proven to me that you don't need somebody telling you what to do anymore. Do you want me to? I can certainly come up with a long list of things." He paused, thinking. "With one exception. In the field, I tell you to do something, you had better damn well do it."

"It _is_ one of your rules, sir," Clint pointed out dryly. "And I think that I wanna go to the range for a bit and see how I feel shooting my bow. Yeah, I'll take the language stuff with me. Always seem to pick up more then."

"I am actually going to suggest not using headphones on the range just yet, actually." Coulson shook his head.

"Why?" Clint sounded curious. "No, wait. I've got this one. You're saying no because I'll have lost the use of one of my senses. I know that I get super-focused when I'm on the range, so...if I'm feeling jumpy already, which I totally am, and somebody comes up and taps me on the shoulder, there's a risk of a freak-out?"

"Exactly." Coulson nodded. "And I don't know about you, but panic attacks and flashbacks aren't fun from either side, and I frankly don't have the time to talk you down from more than one today. Especially if you're on the range, with weapons."

"The horrors. Coulson, the super-agent, not having time to do everything." Clint laughed lightly. "I dunno, boss, I'm actually feeling pretty good right now. But yeah, I can see your point." He started to stand up, then sat back down with a groan. "Second thought, I'm just gonna follow you around, if you don't mind."

Coulson nodded. "Not a problem. I do have a meeting, but you can just hang out in my office. Good?"

* * *

"Good enough." Beeks looked at Coulson steadily. "Although I'm not going to give him the all-clear until I hear that he's not having flashbacks. Which shouldn't be too long, he's amazingly resilient. I'm giving him a week, tops. Would love to know what all in his background made him like that, but even with what he's said in the past two days, Clint's far too closed off with me."

"It isn't in his records?" Coulson settled back in his chair. "It really should be, as part of his complete medical record, if what I'm thinking is the key reason is truly it. Psych is technically part of Medical, you have access to that all."

"I'll take another look then. You get to break it to him, however, that I do know a hell of a lot more about him than he's told me. There isn't the level of trust yet; I'm working on it, but right now the only way that he actually talks to me is if he's distracted, and letting him choose the distraction might end up problematic." The psychiatrist's tone was flat, challenging Coulson.

"Look, Doctor." Coulson started. "I've _been_ trying. Told him point blank that you have to be on his list of safe people. Right now I think that Director Fury and I are the only ones on it, which is, frankly, damn frustrating. Not to mention, potentially awkward. He's...tactile right now."

"Call me Jim. Lord knows you've earned that right." Beeks nodded firmly.

"It's Phil, then. But frankly, Jim, it took me nearly six months to break through his shell fully, and that was nearly six months of constant contact. Five of those months to actually _find_ the crack to let me in. I know that I've told somebody that."

"I do have notes on that. Someplace. Or my wife does, since she's the one who deals with the new recruits the most. Maybe John, I'll call him later." Beeks groaned, running his hands over his head. "He is probably the hardest person on my list. No, not probably. Definitely. Damn introverts. Damn anxieties. Damn _ethics_, because right now I'd like nothing more than to start handing him a dose of Prozac with breakfast."

"Please don't even _say_ that around him." Coulson kept his voice level. "You start talking drugs, you've lost him completely. He's very clear that he's not crazy, just a little nuts."

"It's just a wish, I'm not diagnosing him with being anything other than a relatively new SHIELD agent who still needs to figure out his place here completely. Sure, he's an introvert with trust issues and a very healthy dose of shyness, if not some social anxiety. However, it's not interfering with his life enough to need medication and I suspect that a good portion of it comes from those damned circuses. If it does become a problem, then we'll talk, but it seems like he shoves it back enough to do his job." Beeks sighed. "Well, since you know him best, what do you suggest?"

"I've found some ground rules work very well. Get something in writing that clearly states your expectations and the consequences of not following the rules." Coulson shook his head. "You were saying that distractions work well enough?"

"Two hours today, telling me things that I didn't expect to hear. He actually interacted with me yesterday, and answered a few questions that he probably wouldn't've otherwise. Won't lie, some of the stuff I heard went a very long way towards my understanding of Clint." Beeks gave Coulson a pointed look. "_Were_ you lying to him last night?"

"Of course not." Coulson snapped. "I've _been_ in his position before. I'm just surprised that he's getting over everything this quickly, and I told him that. I also told him that he's got people here to help and that we're damn proud of him, and that's when he burst into tears. He calmed down pretty quickly after that. Talked him out of a nightmare the first night as well and I'm not going to tell _anybody_ what I said, and you know about what happened yesterday evening. That's all that's happened that I've seen, he hasn't said anything else. He did start talking about what had happened even before the rescue team got there; everything started popping up that night. Not to mention, I think I told him that I'd stay honest with him, or he made it clear that one of his expectations was that I'd be honest with him. Either way, not telling the truth is an incredible breach of trust on _both_ sides."

"I...see." Beeks was scribbling notes down. "You know what, changed my mind. He's cleared from my side of the equation unless there's a problem that can't be controlled; just have to wait on Medical, and they'll probably wait until the bruising has gone down and he's not taking anything." He reached out and grabbed a prescription pad. "I'm just going to offer him a few days of some stuff to help him calm down and sleep better at night, since I doubt Medical gave him anything for that. Completely his choice if he takes it or not, point out that this is not an indication that he's crazy. Tell him it's just a support, or that it's almost the same thing that Medical likes to give out to everybody." He glanced at Coulson. "I'm only doing this because he's _got_ a support system. Damned if I know how you do it, but between however his brain is wired and you, I'm suddenly one hell of a lot less worried about how he's going to deal."

"I understand." Coulson nodded, taking the papers that Beeks handed him. "And a good distraction, by the way, is handing him a pad of paper and a pencil. He'll start sketching. He's got more ideas for weapons than I know what to do with, and I don't even think he's realized how many he's come up with. Most aren't possible, but maybe one day. I'd suggest snagging him while he's reading, but that can lead to discussions on whatever the book is about." He shot the psychiatrist a wry grin. "Unless you happen to like the book of the week. I think he's moved onto Tolkien, now."

Beeks nodded. "And I'll have him help me move the furniture, too. Now, how big of a problem is his being tactile?"

"Right now, not much. But I can see it getting embarrassing, especially if he's in the middle of the mess hall and ends up getting clingy. Less for me, because I know what my reputation around here is like, but more for him."

"You know what, that's not a problem. Just be the first one to make contact, keep it casual. And I'll also try to work with him on that."

Coulson shook his head. "Don't bother. I just needed that bit of advice, thank you. Incidentally, have you ever thought about assisting with interrogations? I was listening in, it was hard not to, and you've got some interesting techniques that might work out pretty well."

"Not actually going in the rooms, but I can certainly offer some tips to the interrogators. And if I can get my wife out here, she'll help too. Let me just try and get her to take a few days off, and we can set up a couple days. Next week work? Don't think that she's really doing much right now."

* * *

Coulson entered his office, not even trying to be quiet, and glanced around. Shaking his head, he moved to sit down. "I'm apologizing in advance; the meeting I had to go to was with Beeks, and it was about you."

"S'okay." Clint didn't look up from his book. "Not surprised. As long as you didn't tell him anything, not a problem."

"He's got access to your medical records, Clint, he _knows_. But he's waiting to hear it all from you, first. Incidentally, he's cleared you to go back out; you just have to wait on clearance from Medical. He also sent along a present for you." Coulson tossed the pill bottle at Clint.

"_Valium_? Again, sir. Not. Crazy." Clint glared at the bottle and then at Coulson, standing up from the corner he'd been sitting in and moving to a chair. "Don't think I'm liking you very much right now, either."

"_Relax_, Clint, and use your damn brain." Coulson snapped. "Be happy it's not Prozac with your damn breakfast. It's up to you if you actually want to take it and it'll help you get over the hump. Think of it like those damn crutches. There are what, ten pills in there? Hardly enough to make anybody think you're crazy. Try just taking it at night to sleep. It's similar to what Medical gave you, and I didn't hear you bitching about that." Coulson didn't look at Clint.

"Sir?" Clint's voice was quiet. "I'm sorry for just reacting and not thinking just now. And, um, how'd you find me? Didn't think any of my weapons were there and I'd think I'd know if you'd stuck something in me."

"This doesn't leave this office, understand?" Coulson waited for Clint's nod. "They're also in your boots. That day that all you could find were your sneakers? I had taken your boots, was getting them done. I'm going to do the same to your sneakers, as well." He held out some paper and a pen. "Incidentally, feel up to starting your report? Let me know if it gets to be too much, but please try not to have problems. I don't think that people want to wait much longer to start asking you questions."

"Yeah. Too tricky, you are." Clint nodded, taking the pen and paper. Coulson noticed that the pill bottle had vanished. "And I'll get you my sneakers so you don't have to break into my room again." Taking a deep breath, he shifted closer to an open spot on Coulson's desk and started writing.


	27. Chapter 27

Clint likes Research and Development.

* * *

Clint had worked out what he was going to say the next time he saw the shrink. "I'm not crazy, doc." He tossed the pill bottle onto the desk, in front of Beeks. "I'm not crazy, I don't need drugs, and I'm figuring out ways to make people's lives a living hell if they start jerking me around." He didn't look at the psychiatrist.

Beeks shoved back his instinctual response, holding out a piece of paper and waiting until Clint had moved closer and taken it. "Sign it."

"What is 'it.'" Clint took the paper, giving it a quick glance. "Contract?"

"Yes. You play by the rules, or else I get to take all sorts of things away from you. Know you like your bow; how does a month without sound to you? There's also that rather nice Psych recommendation that this Agent is needing a bit of a break, but he's still able to keep working – security in Greenland, maybe? Nice and cold, nothing to do, sleeping in tents, having to cook your own food. Lovely, right? Does wonders for the psyche, being put in a low-stress environment like that. Especially during the winter, don't get a lot of sun – they hand out antidepressants like _candy_ up there. Sign. It."

"_Jeez_, you're pissy today." Clint shook his head. "Not signing anything until I read it." He thought he heard Beeks growl. "Ask Coulson! I went and read all of the orientation stuff!"

"Barton, you're over thirty minutes late, I refuse to track you down through this warren of hideouts, and maybe, just maybe, I had other things planned for today after I was done with you. Like spending time with my _wife_, who I haven't seen for nearly a _month_. Ground rules. Show up on time, don't jerk me around, don't make threats. Clear?" His anger was suddenly derailed when Clint's eyes narrowed and the archer leaned forward, holding out his wrist. He realized that Clint was wearing a quiver and there was a bow leaning against a chair.

"I was on the damn range and didn't realize my watch wasn't working right so the alarm I had set didn't go off. Saw the clock, didn't even bother to put my stuff away. I know I'm late, and I'm _sorry_ about that. But you've got a lot to answer for, too, doc, like going behind my back to try and make me take shit that I don't want to because I'm _not_ crazy. And for trying to get me to tell you stuff that it turns out you already know, so since you know it, I'm not saying it. Today was the first day in the past _six_ that I felt like I could go to the range and use my bow without hurting or wanting to _stab_ people for staring at me, can't blame me for wanting to get back to my _normal_ routine. Wasn't that the goal? Get me back to 'normal?'" Clint roughly shoved a chair around, positioning it so that he could see the door out of the corner of his eye, before grabbing a pen and signing the paper. "There." He shrugged his quiver off, and firmly sat down. "Now. Ask."

Beeks picked up the pill bottle, delaying responding. Looking in it, he snorted. "And yet, you took some."

"Well, _yeah_. They did help me to sleep, although Coulson had to tell me to use 'em because I really didn't sleep all that well a couple nights. Actually slept ten hours the first time, which was really nice." Clint nodded. "I like sleeping. Sleep is a lovely thing, when I have good dreams. Sleeping here is also nice, because I can hear the engines in my room, kinda, and that's usually relaxing." He held out his hand. "Can I have them back?"

"_Really_?" Beeks shook his head. "Even though you're not crazy and don't need drugs, remember?" Sitting back in his chair, he looked firmly at Clint. "Tell me about the nightmares."

Clint shrugged, playing with an arrow. "What about them."

"Oh, how many, how bad were they, how much are they bugging you, that sort of thing." Beeks held back his sigh. "Same questions I've been asking you every other time we've met."

"I found myself in the corner of my room a couple mornings and even on top of my wardrobe once and I've got no idea how I would've gotten up there in my sleep, and that's when Coulson told me to '_take_ the damn Valium, Clint, I'm tired of having you fall asleep in here and then needing to be woken up because you're drooling on my floor.' He also handed me a teddy bear and said that if I wanted to be clingy after having a screaming nightmare in his office, it was too uncomfortable for _him_ to be the thing I was clinging too and it was difficult for him to work so try something that didn't have anything better to do. Nothing too bad in the past few days." Clint had pulled off the arrowhead, and was rolling it around in his hands. "How d'you do desensitization? Coulson told me to ask you again. Think he's pissed off at me."

"I see. I _do_ want you to think about just how much touch you're feeling like you need, compared to how much you're getting, and how it changes based on the circumstances, then get back to me. And if that bear helps. As for desensitization, there are ways." Beeks leaned forward, desperately trying not to smile, lightly pushing a pencil and a blank piece of paper towards Clint. He'd wondered about the interactions between the two men more than a little over the past week. "It'll take a good chunk of work, and you'll have to put a little more trust in me than you do now."

"Oh. Okay." Clint looked up, staring at the psychiatrist. "I trust you. Not totally, but more'n when I first met you. And I don't _like_ people touching me. So it's really weird, that there're times that I _need_ to know that somebody's there to watch my back. It's happened a lot this past week, usually when I have a nightmare or start to freak out a little." He wasn't quite sure about saying that in some odd way, the toy _had_ helped with the nightmares.

"Dare I ask what brought about this change of heart, for purely personal and selfish reasons?"

"You're pushy, but not pushy at the same time which is a really cool trick." Clint had gone back to fidgeting. "And you don't laugh at me. Some of the things I say, sure, but you don't make it _personal_. Not like the adults in Juvie did. And Coulson said that I had to. He's said that a lot over the past week, actually."

"It's better than nothing, I guess. Any other immediate questions?" Beeks chuckled.

"Yeah." Clint felt a little nervous. With a deep breath, he set his shoulders and went on. "Is there any way to, yanno, _stop_ being an introvert? That's what I've been told I am and I don't know if that's a good thing."

"Ah." Beeks hadn't expected that question. "Yes, Clint, you're an introvert. And I'm going to give you the rest of it, simply because you _should_ know. You are an extremely shy introvert with trust issues; I'm not surprised, based on what you've told me about your background. However. You've got enough skill at making it work for you and not being controlled by it, so no, I'm not going to help you change that. I'll get you some readings on your personality type, which you might find interesting, and you'll probably find that the trust thing and shyness will go away with time. You're also still getting settled into working here and what's being asked of you. If you find that you _can't_ do your job, then we'll talk, but the treatments generally include medication, which you're very clear about not wanting to take. Speaking of that," he paused, then picked up the pill bottle and removed all but two pills. "Two are all I'm going to give back to you, after that you'll need to see me if you're still having problems. Understood?"

"Yeah." Clint nodded, feeling oddly relieved. "And thanks."

Beeks tossed the bottle in Clint's direction, watching as the archer caught it. "Nice catch."

"Well, _duh_. You don't get a name like Hawkeye if you've got _normal_ vision and can't predict where something _easy_ is going to end up. We done? Want to get back to the range and you said that you wanted to see your wife."

Beeks shook his head. "My wife is a psychologist, and she understands that sometimes sessions run long. Range'll wait, nightmares won't. You need some coping skills first, and that'll also start going towards desensitization in general. And by coping, I don't mean going out and getting drunk, like so many people here like to do. Or high, because while that's not allowed, I know it happens."

* * *

"So, mystery man. You kinda disappeared for a bit there." Bobbi's cheerful voice had Clint deciding that he needed to change when he ate, or just avoid the mess hall completely. "And I'm not going to give up, you understand? So, where'd you vanish to?"

"Around." Clint was hoping that he'd be able to stay deliberately vague. Most of his visible bruises had healed up, but he could still see some coloring when he looked into the mirror. "Yanno. Mission. Post-mission stuff."

"Yeah? You get the guy?" Bobbi leaned forward. "Tell me?"

Clint shook his head. "Please don't ask. I don't want to talk about it." He knew he was probably begging, but whatever. "I don't think I _can_ talk about it."

"Why not? And don't tell me it's classified; there've been rumors going around for the past week that all of a sudden one of ours is getting hauled off in a wheelchair and handcuffs and a few others are going with him, a ton of guys in uniform are walking around looking mad enough to spit nails, and there was a whole big hullabaloo about a week ago. Friend was in Medical, waiting to get a check-up, said that she was shoved out of there pretty quick." Bobbi's head tilted to the side as she curiously stared at Clint. "And you've got a couple bruises. You okay? What happened?"

Suddenly angry, Clint stood up. "Look, you really _don't_ want to know and I really _don't_ want to talk about it, which means that I _don't_ say a single. Damn. Word." Picking up his tray, he went to leave the mess hall. Eating in his room until people got the message that he didn't want to talk really didn't sound that bad.

"Wait! Clint!" He heard Bobbi running to catch up as he dumped his trash and headed for the door. He didn't stop until she'd caught up, not wanting to deal with everybody staring at him. "Look," she reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "I've been told that I've got less sense than a nematode sometimes, and this is one of them. I'm sorry."

"A what?" Clint didn't move.

"Nematode? A type of roundworm? High school biology?" Bobbi just looked at Clint. "Doesn't everybody take biology?"

Clint shrugged, pulling his arm free. "I didn't. I don't like science. I don't like being forced to be social if I don't have to. I don't _want_ friends. I have to be someplace now. Please go away. Bye." He spun on his heel, taking the route to the range that led him past Coulson's office. He'd realized that some people didn't know when to give up, and the past few weeks had taught him that sometimes, the scientists were the worst. He hoped that Coulson might have some suggestions.

"Sir," Clint ducked into Coulson's office, leaning against the door. "How can I make somebody go away?"

"Relationship to SHIELD will affect my response and your options, which range from mildly rude to fatal." Coulson glanced up. "And knocking, Barton, generally indicates a desire to enter and allows the person inside the room to give their permission. Do you think that you'll ever learn that?"

"Maybe. It's a scientist, so guess she's one of the good guys until proven otherwise. She's pushy and won't take no for an answer."

"Ah." Coulson smiled. "I see. Did you tell her that you weren't interested?"

"Yeah. Not in those words exactly? Said that I didn't like people, didn't want friends? Did ask her to go away. May have said more, but really don't remember much of the conversation that she started before Canada. Fury showed up for that one...oh yeah. Did say I wasn't the relationship type that time." Clint stared at Coulson. "So not funny." He paused, thinking for a second. "Okay, maybe a little funny."

"Very funny." Coulson nodded. "Try putting yourself in my position. It's been about a year since you started here, I'd hoped that you would have picked up a few ideas about how to work with different personalities other than being an ass or running away. Tell me, how did people interact in the circus?"

Clint shrugged, sliding down to sit on the floor. "We talked, yeah. We helped each other out with the shows, because that was how we got money. Never got personal, and people understood that if somebody didn't want to talk about something, then that subject was dropped. Forever. Lotta folks had a past that they didn't like much. Pushing somebody was a sure way to get your act screwed with. Kinda like how you and I talk, actually, just a lot less 'dammit, Barton!' or your little one liners that tell me I'm being an idiot again."

"Please don't go do anything to her lab. She's not the only one working in there, and it's not polite to punish the many for the transgressions of the few. Or the one." Coulson reached for a pen. "Does this she have a name?"

"Bobbi...something. She's in one of the biology labs. Finishing up her PhD here. Lab is trying to make something that was used back in World War Two. Kept on asking questions and trying to get me to talk about the past couple weeks. And that's another thing. How old is she? 'Cause I thought you needed a college degree before getting a PhD which means she's older'n me."

"And having observed scientists in their natural habitats, what conclusions can you draw about their social skills?"

"Dunno. Some of 'em are really nice and with it, others would always ask questions, and some probably need to be told to eat on a regular basis." Clint stood up and slouched into a chair. "So yeah. She's probably doesn't get some social cues? Which sucks because she's cute and all but she just kept on asking questions even after I asked her to stop. And kinda funny that I know all that."

Coulson nodded. "There are steps to take, Clint, when dealing with this sort of thing. She starts bugging you again, tell her that you're aren't interested and to leave you alone, tell me, and thank you for following the correct procedure in dealing with potential problems with other SHIELD employees. And while bugging you depends on your definition and interpretation of the situation, please don't come running because she says hello in passing. Although I will pass along through unofficial channels the idea that sometimes, one won't get all their questions answered and when somebody says to not ask, that means that that particular line of questioning is over." Standing up, he waved at the door. "And R and D has something for you, they're hoping that this time you'll be less upset about everything. It is your design, after all."

"Yeah?" Clint glanced at his watch. "Cool." He followed Coulson out into the hall.

"Incidentally, Clint," Coulson said, not looking around, "had some eyes out, and we found him. Never left the country, it turns out, but he is now in an area that is a bit less populated. Are you up to a second try?"

Clint grimly smiled, restraining his urge to laugh hysterically. "Oh, _hell_ yes. When can we leave?"

"Few days. Need to make sure everything is properly planned out, get you cleared by Medical once and for all. Feel like using your bow?"

"Again, sir, oh hell _yes_. And can I say, it's about time? I mean, I get that there are reasons to use my rifle, but it's not me. And," Clint scowled, "a certain bastard _broke_ it."

"We don't have a shortage of sniper rifles. You're not the only trained sniper, I know you know that."

"And that's another thing. I don't want to work with groups anymore, boss." Clint shook his head. "I don't think. Guess I should go get another, then, and get everything set up the way I like it."

Coulson nodded, opening a door into an R and D lab. "Exactly. Now, please don't kill anybody today, please don't blow anything up, and please don't make any extreme threats. Additionally, general rules are that there is to be no explosive ordinance set off inside the Helicarrier if at all possible. Go to the flight deck and shoot away from everything." He nodded at a scientist. "Gentlemen. You said that you had some things for Agent Barton?"

* * *

Clint grinned as he ran his fingers lightly up and down the bow that he'd been handed. "Okay, geeks are on my good side again. This is _nice_." He paused, bringing it in for a closer look. "What's some of this?" He pointed at a couple buttons on the riser, right next to the grip.

"We were having trouble incorporating everything that you came up with, but we figured that you'd probably enjoy being able to detonate things remotely the most. Push the button and things _will_ go boom, to put it in small words."

"Huh." Clint eyed it again, then glanced around. "D'you have any bowstrings in here? Or were you just making everything up?" He nodded as the scientist pointed at a table. "Thanks." Stringing the bow, he drew it back. "It's kinda light, but yeah, it's nice."

The scientist nodded. "Tell us your chosen draw weight, we can make it work. We just went off your other one, but we've done all our research now. And by the way, did you like those arrowheads? John decided that they needed to be old-fashioned, partially as a joke, partially because he's old-fashioned."

"Yeah. I didn't tell you guys that? Sorry." Clint shrugged. "Whatever you guys did with 'em, prolly saved my life. So, um, thanks." He pointed at an arrow. "That's not going to try and blow my hand off, is it?"

"Shouldn't. It's just a detonator and some weights in there, for now, and we used your design to make sure everything worked. If it does go off accidentally, shouldn't even lose a finger." The cheerful tone to the scientist's voice had Clint pulling his hand back warily. "They usually don't."

"Okay," Clint slowly said, carefully picking up the arrow. "Did you just make arrowheads?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at it closely. "Or did you make everything new?"

"Everything's new; the idea is that you've come up with quite a few ideas, and so we're running with it all. Since the arrowheads will increase in weight, we decided that you'd hopefully be able to work with increased weight overall and so put some counterweights in." The scientist watched as Clint nocked the arrow, drawing it back. "We're trying to figure out how to make the connection points similar so that you can carry around a bunch of shafts and arrowheads, but for now it's looking like you'll just have to choose which arrows you're going to take with you."

"Nice." Clint kept the arrow nocked and the tension on the bow as he looked over at Coulson with a smile. "_Definitely_ a fan of these geeks, sir." He glanced around, curious about the wide-eyed looks he was getting. "What? Not aiming this at any of you."

"It's a 60-pound draw weight on that bow, Agent Barton." The voice was shaky. "All our research has suggested that the trained male can draw it, but can't just sit there _holding_ it like you are. At least, not with a recurve bow. We haven't finished the compound bow yet."

"And like I said, it's light." Clint felt confused. "And I know I've got some freaky skills. Ask Agent Coulson. Bow I was using before I started here was almost at 50 pounds. First bow I got here was higher. I can probably go up to 90 now. Maybe even higher than that. Besides, not like I'm going to sit there holding it for _hours_, maybe just a few minutes. Anything longer, then yeah, compound bow or I'm not going to be sitting there waiting." Relaxing, he put the bow and arrow down on the table, fingers lightly running over both. He glanced over at Coulson. "And I'm not trying to scare the geeks on purpose."

"I know." Coulson nodded. "And thank you for all this. I'm sure in the future Agent Barton will inform you of _everything_ that he's looking for in a bow."

"Of course." Clint nodded, grabbing at the bow again. "Can I take this with me?"

"Actually, Agent Barton," the scientists had hopeful looks on their faces. "Maybe you'd be willing to stay here and work with us? We know all the theory, but you could show us the practical side?"

Clint glanced over at Coulson, who shrugged. "I can give you guys an hour, I guess?" At Coulson's nod, he relaxed. "Sir, should I find you after this so you can tell me what's going on?"

"No." Coulson shook his head. "Go over to Intel and get all the information that they've put together, as well as their analysis. Take a look at it before you leave, because otherwise you'll get to go back and tell them why they need to put their colored markers away. I've told them twice now, but I don't think they've gotten the message. Maybe you telling them will make it clear. And I want you to plan this out on your own, then we'll talk it over."

"Okay." Clint nodded, unstringing the bow. "So, my favorite geeks, what sort of questions did you have? And what did you make this out of, because the usual methods of changing the draw weight won't work with this stuff."

* * *

"Hi." Clint swung into the intelligence office. "Heard you guys had some new stuff on that guy from HYDRA in Canada?"

"We do. You are Agent Barton?" A woman stood up from a desk and was walking towards Clint. "Have some questions for you."

"Me too." Clint tilted his head to the side, curiously, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You first."

"Are you the reason that we keep on getting told to only use black and white? It's getting a little annoying."

Clint nodded. "Hard to read what you guys send out. Why do you use colors all the time?"

"_Most_ people appreciate having everything colored." The woman's tone made Clint feel like he was the one who was wrong. "We don't see a reason to change just for one person."

"Do you have the file or not?" Clint reached for the feelings of calm and achievement he'd had with the scientists. "Because I'll take a look at what you guys have and point out to you just why Coulson's telling you all that." When he was handed the file, he opened it and quickly flipped through to the maps. "So, maybe you can tell me what this is saying, because it's all one big blur to me. Sure, I can read a map, but these? I can tell that this is a road, but what's this?" He pointed to the center of the map.

"It's the target area. It's in a valley, and you don't have to get upset about it."

"See, for me, it's all a bunch of white. Yellow and blue are most decidedly not my friends, yellow more than blue, at least on paper. And I get that people like things to be colored, but you people are _seriously_ fucking with my ability to do my job. And I'm not nearly pissed right now. I have to go tell Agent Coulson that you guys are being stubborn, he's not going to be pleased. Or," inspiration struck Clint. "Director Fury. Bet that he won't be happy that it's taking me twice as long to do stuff because I have to keep on asking for clarification because I can't read it." He held out the file. "Black and white, please. Red if it's super-important. I know that maps don't have to be in color."

"Come back in half an hour." The woman snapped, snatching the file back. "It'll take us that long to render everything the way that you want it."

"Really?" Clint was starting to feel mad. "Because you just need to print another copy, right?" He pointed at the computers as he had another idea. "I'm going to come back in ten minutes. And I have to come ask you guys _again_, next time it won't be polite, and the time after that I'm going to have to find the best way in here when you guys aren't and steal anything that can be used to put color on paper. Unlike probably everybody else here, it isn't a want, it's a _need_ to have stuff in black and white. Want a doctor's note as proof?"

"That won't be necessary." Director Fury moved up to stand next to Clint. "Is that understood, Agent Moyer?" Not waiting for a response, he turned around and nodded at Clint. "Come with me, Agent Barton."


	28. Chapter 28

Clint's really picked up how to plan things out. Fury reveals his plan. Partially.

* * *

Clint followed Fury out into the hallway, watching as the Director leaned against the wall. "I want your report, Barton."

"On what, sir?"

"What do you think, Agent?" Fury's voice was even.

Clint delayed responding, trying to think. "I gave it to Coulson Monday? He said it looked good after the fourth rewrite." Rubbing the back of his neck, he continued, "and I know that the debriefings were recorded and there were two of 'em, so that's a lot of information right there?"

Fury grumbled slightly under his breath, turning around to open the door into the intelligence room. "Agents. When you are finished, you will send the information over to Agent Coulson's office. Understood?" Not waiting for a reply, he turned around. "Move it, Barton."

Silently, Clint followed Fury, ending up in what he assumed was the Director's office. Curiously, he glanced around, jumping slightly at Fury's voice.

"Sit down, Barton, and don't say a word." Fury reached out, picking up his phone. "Coulson. Get up here."

Clint shifted uncomfortably in his chair, starting to feel nervous about the level of quiet in the room and the way that Fury wasn't looking at him. A knock on the door, followed by Coulson entering, had him looking up in relief. "I didn't do anything."

"_Dammit_," Coulson started, then stopped. "Director. Unless he was causing chaos in Intel, I know that Barton didn't do anything wrong."

"He hasn't. Yet." Fury leaned back in his chair. "However, it's been a year since he started here, and the past couple weeks have been rather…eventful. Agent Barton. Having learned what you've learned, and done what you have done, do you still wish to continue on this path?"

Clint felt like the bottom had dropped out of his world. "Are," he paused, taking a deep breath. "Are you kicking me out, sir?" He felt Coulson move to stand closer.

"What I am doing, Barton, is giving you an option, unlike the last time. Do. You. Wish. To. Continue. Here. Yes or no." Fury snorted. "If the answer is no, you'd better have a damn good reason why."

"Oh." Clint quickly shook his head. He forced himself to focus on the conversation. "I'm staying. Sir. No way in hell I'm leaving."

"My turn, Director. I told you so." Coulson crossed his arms over his chest. "I could have, and did, tell you that months ago. Only way Barton's leaving is if he's dead." He shook his head. "And he's stubborn enough to maybe even find a way around _that_, too."

Fury leaned forward, shaking his head. "Of course he would. Give a boy three squares a day, a roof over his head, and the attention he wants, you're stuck with him for life. Like a damn _cat_, that's what you are, Barton. Nine lives and all."

"Least Coulson got me housebroken, sir." Feeling more comfortable, Clint relaxed deeper into his seat, giving Fury a lazy grin. "Mostly."

"Sir, is that all you needed from him?" Coulson moved forward. "Because we do have things to do."

"They'll wait. He knows exactly what he's going to do, and knew it as soon as he saw that file. Didn't you, Barton." Fury raised one hand, pointing at Coulson. "Stay quiet, you, and let me prove my point. You didn't believe me completely then, maybe you'll believe me now. And get your damn boots off my desk, Barton, unless you want to eat them."

"Probably've eaten worse, and I kinda have an idea." Clint shrugged, sitting up straight. "Need to get a good look at the map, see the area in person, but yeah. Climb a tree and hang out there until I get the shot. Use that sweet new bow from R and D, now that we've figured out a good draw weight. Not quite sure about the new arrows, but they've told me that things that need to go boom won't go boom until I push the button."

"Why climb a tree? Why not just go right up to the building?"

"Because," Clint leaned forward, "from far away, I can see better. And tree's're just like my perch at the circus, or a building, or that awesome room up top that looks over the flight deck. I can see _everything_. Not to mention, height means better shooting angles, less risk of other things getting in the way, and it's harder for people to get at me. Going inside would probably require a team, and I want to do this one on my own."

Fury reached out, tapping at his computer. "And what about getting to a tree?"

"Need to see the map clearly, but hey, I like hiking. Even if Coulson doesn't. 'N maybe a nice hike in the woods is what Beeks was talking about when he started going on about coping and relaxation yesterday. Dunno. Causing some chaos sounds like fun, too, and if there's a car there, or even better, an airplane, I can cause a lot of chaos especially if I can blow stuff up."

"Stop babbling. Here's the intel. Now, tell me what you want to do." Fury spun his computer monitor around.

"Huh." Clint stared at the screen, before moving his chair closer. He took a minute to look at the map, thinking back to sniper school and the sorts of exercises they forced the trainees through. "So, guy's there. Runway there, road there. I'd wanna go in on the other side. Bring something to eat, something to drink, a blanket, hang out and watch for a couple days." He glanced over at Fury, reaching out for the keyboard and hitting a couple keys. "Avoid any security going in, since I'll be there for a day or two." He glanced up at Coulson. "Guess I did learn something from the Army." Looking back at Fury, he tilted his head to one side. "Cool, sir?"

"Not yet." Fury hit a key, making the computer monitor go dark. "There are some people here who still doubt a few things about you. So, Agent Barton, want to tell me why you left the circus in Pennsylvania and headed to New York?"

Clint shrugged, trying to balance his chair on two legs. "Felt like it. Tibolt's was boring, they didn't pay enough for me to get the shit I needed to, yanno, _perform_, and they expected me to cook food that was something other than charcoal or raw. Figured that anyplace else would have something better. And Tibolt was an ass in general."

"And the fact that the night you left, the FBI had shown up to bring you and three others in didn't have anything to do with it?" Fury stared at Clint.

"They were FBI? Damn. Must've really pissed somebody off, then." Clint let the chair fall back to all four legs with a bang and a low whistle. "And they left holes big enough for the elephants to walk through, followed by the horses and the bearded lady singing opera." He made a face. "She couldn't sing at all."

"They were posted around the big top at three-yard intervals."

"Don't think that any of the elephants were nine feet wide."

"You were dressed in bright purple spandex and carrying bows and arrows."

"The girls were doing their group act, since there weren't any kids there." Clint stretched his arms over his head. "Hey, Coulson, I want time on the range. Can I hold off mission planning until I've had more of a chance to play with my new bow?"

"Not yet." Fury pulled a handful of envelopes out of his desk, tossing them at Clint. "Think you can stretch your little brain even more and think about a different sort of education?"

Clint caught one, letting the others land on the floor. Opening it, he snorted. "College? Pass."

"Not an option, Clint." Coulson knelt down, picking up the rest of the envelopes. "Your only option is which one." Opening one with his name on it, he stared at Fury in dismay. "Director. You _didn't_."

"_He_," Fury pointed at Clint, "is going to get his damned degree even if _you_," he pointed at Coulson, "go get another one. Remember?" Shifting his gaze to Clint, he stared at the archer. "One week, Barton, that is your deadline to choose one of those schools, come up with some sort of sordid background story that will explain why you don't live on campus and are older than the rest of your classmates, and show me. Only exception to that deadline is if you're off taking care of that target, and then I want it as soon as you return. Clear?"

"Yeah, sir." Clint was trying to hold back his laughter at the thought of Coulson sitting in a classroom.

Fury nodded. "Thank you, Agent Barton, now get your ass out of my office. Coulson, stay." The two men ignored the laughter echoing from the hall as the door shut behind the archer.

"Yes, Director, he may be a pain in the ass, but he's SHIELD's. That's a given, _was_ a given as soon as he realized that this was the best thing to happen to him." Coulson calmly took Clint's seat. "And that was about a week in. Two, at the outside. Why, exactly, did you want him to explain why he left Pennsylvania?"

Fury held up one hand, hitting a couple keys on his computer. "There. I wanted to get it recorded. World Security Council is getting on me about bringing him in and not putting him to work as fast as they were expecting, or doing the things that they were wanting." He snorted. "And that I gave him to you, and not somebody more senior. Hopefully this'll get them off my back for a little while, at least. Decisions on assets aren't something that they normally concern themselves with, so why they're giving me crap about Barton, I don't know. And like I've said before, I have plans for that boy. For you, too, Coulson, which is why you got saddled with him. Don't expect to get handed anything like him again. Interested why?"

"Not particularly. I was quite happy floating around and doing what needed to be done, Director. Although I will admit, Barton's forced a certain amount of flexibility into my life." Coulson leaned back and stretched his legs out, trying to figure out just why Fury was telling him all this. "But I suspect that you're going to reveal part of your plan. Can I tell this to Barton?"

"Never." Fury shook his head. "I want him to be my loose cannon, the one that I can send to do anything and he'll do it because I say so. I want you to be the one pulling the trigger at first, with the goal that in a couple years, he won't need that." He leaned forward. "You don't just catch a hawk and expect it to do your bidding. You _tame_ it, then hope that it sticks around. I'm just lucky that he's decided that this is the best place for him to be."

"One problem with that assumption." Coulson leaned forward, allowing himself a small smile. "He's not yours. He's _mine_. And that means that there will be times that you will be told to go to hell."

"Plausible deniability is exactly what I need, Coulson, and that includes being told no and please tell me no at least twice a year; I'd rather the Council be mad at you and Barton than me. So why not pair up one of the rising stars of SHIELD with a boy who just needed some security, create something that will do what SHIELD _needs_, even if it isn't what SHIELD _wants_. The fact that you two just mirror each other – and do not argue with me on that one, Agent Coulson – is an added bonus which makes it all work even better."

"And how will all that be determined?" Coulson narrowed his eyes, staring at Fury. "And I'll start telling you no right now. Agent Barton will not be a loose cannon, because they have a tendency to either burn out or go rogue, no matter how loyal they may seem. Agent Barton will be taught to continue to think for himself and to assess the situation and what the situation requires. Agent Barton will continue on as he has been as a solo operative, emphasis on solo because he doesn't play well with others unless _he_ chooses to. SHIELD, you, and myself will be his primary foci of loyalty. Psych is working with me on that; they say that his mindset is becoming exactly what it should be. _Listen_ to the phone call he made, Director, and the debriefings; he was willing to shoot somebody that he'd spent quite a bit of time with and admittedly trusted because the man was a traitor. Not because Newton was the one to catch Barton, not because Newton helped beat him up, but because Newton was betraying SHIELD and everything that Barton feels that SHIELD stands for. He is most likely at the range right now, testing his new bow and already coming up with plans for another. He is looking forward to this mission, partially because he wants payback, but also because he didn't complete the previous one. Does SHIELD need something like Barton? Most certainly. But it will not be only on your terms." He paused, thinking over what Fury had said. "And whatever your plans for anybody involve, know that they won't automatically fall into line just because you want them to. Now, Director, if you'll excuse me, I need to go reassure Intel that whatever threats Barton made, they were made in all honesty and if they don't shape up, they're going to suffer the consequences. And finally give Barton the map of the ship I've been promising him for the past six months just so he can break into an office or two."

"Good," Fury nodded. "And, Agent Coulson?" He swung his computer monitor around, pointing at the screen. "I'd suggest asking him why he visited Medical." He'd pulled up a security feed, showing Clint talking with a nurse.

* * *

Clint didn't wait for the door to shut behind him before letting out the laugh at the idea of Coulson sitting in a classroom with a bunch of teenagers. Catching his breath, he sobered up, mind already working on ideas. "Military is right out; too easy to check and be found out," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if…" he trailed off as a vague memory ran through his head. "Bet one of the nurses'll know."

"Hey," Clint stuck his head through the door leading back to where he thought the nurses' station was in Medical. "Gotta question, could somebody help me out?"

"Emergency or no?" A nurse hurried up, quickly scanning Clint.

"Just had a couple questions. I'm Clint." Clint held out his hand to the nurse. "Working on a cover story."

"Darla. Meg warned me about you." The nurse shook Clint's hand. "Cover story, you say? Come on, we can sit down and get comfortable." She eyed Clint. "Don't suppose I can barter some future good behavior out of this?"

"I can promise to try?" Clint shrugged, smiling innocently. "And I did apologize about last year and I don't think I said or did anything last time except have a flashback and nearly push Meg into drugging me up a couple times because I was about to freak out. But I had an excuse."

"I'll take it. I'll take it even better if I can get it in writing, but I'm not holding my breath." Darla shrugged. "So, what were you wondering?" She glanced at her watch. "I can give you a few minutes, unless something happens."

"Thanks. Fury said that I needed to come up with a reason why I'm going to college _now_, instead of three years ago, and why I'm not living on campus. I think that I'm also going to need reasons to vanish for a few days at a time, too. I kinda remember somebody who was always getting sick. Is there anything that I could use like that?"

"Huh." Darla leaned back in her chair. "There are a lot of chronic conditions out there. Do you want to be the sick one, or will it be somebody else?" She glanced at Clint. "Actually, considering how you look, you're not going to want to be the sick one, unless it's psychological. And that always seems to cause more problems than it needs to."

"Okay," Clint nodded. "Cool. Don't want to play crazy; I'm nuts enough. What sort of things are there? Guess I can make up a family, too."

"Something slow comes to mind; it can be progressive and flare up, which could help explain why you'd vanish once in a while. How visible did you want your fake family members to be?"

"They need to be real?" Clint blinked, confused. "How does college _work_?"

"You said that you weren't going to be living on campus, and so most people who do live off campus usually live with a family member. Not always, but usually. So, people will expect whoever you're living with to show some interest in your school and visit at _least_ once. But outside of that, you generally go to classes, study, and a lot of people do things like go to parties and have fun, make friends." Darla gave Clint a sad smile. "You poor kid."

"Not a kid, not poor," Clint paused, "well, not anymore. I just don't know this stuff which is why I'm asking. So yeah, I can probably pull Coulson in to play a role, but that's it. And I think that if he was asked to be sick, he'd say no; I don't think he could do that, unless he was in another car accident and even then he just got kinda pissy."

"I remember." Darla's voice was dry. "There are only so many of us here who will work with the operatives, and he's fallen into that category. Don't tell him I said that."

Clint grinned. "Okay. So I can probably dream up a mom? Who doesn't leave the house?"

Nodding, Darla looked thoughtful. "Okay, you want a close family member who is stuck at home, gives you a reason to vanish at times, and explains why you're three years older than your classmates. You know what, Clint?" She shifted forward, grabbing at a piece of paper and a pen. "I'm going to open this up to everybody here, if that's okay, because I'm stuck. It'll be fun for us, since it's all theoretical, and everybody can get involved. You can thank us with cookies."

"Cool." Clint nodded. "And yeah, that helps me out, a lot. Thanks." Standing up, he looked curiously at the nurse. "And cookies? Really?"

"Really. You come back in two, three days and we should have some ideas for you."

* * *

"Medical, Clint?" Coulson looked up curiously when Clint appeared in his office. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah." Clint reached out, grabbing the folder with his name on it. "Had an idea for that whole college deal. My first thought was military, but that's kinda easy to check and I probably wouldn't be able to keep everything straight. So I remembered somebody who was always sick, and,"

"And you decided to ask over at Medical if they could help. I'm pleasantly surprised that you came up with that on your own." He smirked slightly at the offended glare Clint was giving him. "And Canada?"

"That." Clint shrugged. "Only option there is, since he's in a cabin in the woods in the middle of practically nowhere." He grinned. "And I can blow some stuff up, especially if there's a plane there. That's gonna be _awesome_. Taking out the target'll be even better, and being able to use my bow? It's, it's, like _Christmas_ or something."

"_There's_ the Barton I know." Coulson shook his head. "I was about to drag you back to Medical and shove you into Psych as well, just for a full work-up. I was starting to wonder."

"Meh." Clint was staring at a map. "So what's up with the whole college deal? Debra…Starla…Darla…nurse over in Medical said some stuff, but think she was feeling sorry for me. I did ask her how college worked, then she called me a poor kid and said that she was going to put my question out to everybody there and I should bring them cookies."

"Cookies. Interesting. And college…college is what you make of it. I suggest you focus on studying and making sure you pass all your classes. I suspect that Fury is expecting you to choose a major now, as well, but I'm overriding his wishes and telling you to choose a school, try some basic, introductory classes since you haven't been in a classroom in years, and then think about what direction you want to go. But all that can wait, Canada can't. You've said how you think you're going to get in; how are you going to get there?"

"Fly in, I guess." Clint shrugged. "Then walk some, climb a tree, start creating chaos. Walk back out, get in the plane, go home."

"Landing where?"

"Oh. Yeah." Clint stared at the map again. "Help?"

Coulson just handed Clint a second, larger map. Leaning back in his chair, he watched as the archer pulled it closer, frowning slightly as he ran a finger over different areas. With a sigh, Coulson sat up straight. "Clint. Have a question for you."

"Yeah, sir?" Clint glanced at Coulson curiously. "About what?"

"Something that I was told. You don't get to know it. But remember when I was asking you those questions a few months ago, giving you those scenarios?"

"A little." Clint's eyes narrowed as he tried to remember. "You were trying to teach me that my focus needed to be on SHIELD, not you."

"Exactly. I want to pull one out again. You hear a rumor that Fury's behind some sabotage of the ship. You find out that the rumor is true. What do you do?"

Clint's face went blank. "Take him down and keep him down until somebody can figure out what's going on and what to do." With a wry grin he continued, "how I'd do that, I don't know. I'd probably have to steal some drugs from Medical or something. I could hit him over the head? Blowdart?"

"Okay." Coulson nodded. "So, you were looking for a landing spot? Find one yet?"

"Need to check with whoever'll be piloting the jet, but yeah." Clint pointed at a spot on the map. "See, looks like there's a clearing or something here; it's the top of a mountain, so approach from _this_ angle, keep it low, and it's about two miles from there to where the target is supposed to be. Walking back'll be a pain, since it's all uphill, but you could also probably come just pick me up, yeah? Least, that's what I'd do, but this map isn't as good as the ones that the pilots have."

"Maybe. Write it all down and go to the pilots' day room to check with them on the flight aspect." Coulson tossed a pad of paper on his desk. "Good thinking, although I'm not looking forward to spending a couple days camping in the back of a jet."

"Sorry, boss." Clint grinned. "Maybe the next one'll be someplace where you can stay in a fancy hotel." Not moving, he took a deep breath. "Um, Coulson? This whole school thing. Do you think I _can_ do it?"

"I don't think you have a choice," Coulson started, then the tone of Clint's voice hit him. "Yes, Clint, I think you can do it. And I think you will do it." Glancing at his watch, he shook his head. "I don't want to continue talking in here; let's go grab some food and you can figure out what's bugging you."

"I _know_ what's bugging me. Couple things are. I haven't been in a classroom in ten years, and all I remember is having problems with everybody and everything. But elementary school is different from college, right?"

"The classroom portion, usually. The social aspect, I can't say, because you're dealing with other humans. Fist fights are generally forbidden, however. As are weapons, although I know you'll keep a knife on you."

"Guessed that. Besides, using words is easier and less likely to get me in trouble." Clint shook his head. "But yeah. Other problem. Nurse said that unless I wanted to be crazy, a sick family member would be the best thing and I'm not about to ask you to do _that_ but I was wondering how involved you were willing to be or wanted to be or if I should just leave you out of it completely and find somebody else?"

"Breathe, Clint." Coulson was working through what Clint had said. "Ah. I see. Thank you for saying that I don't have to pretend to be sick. I'm guessing you're looking for somebody to be a family member that can show up on campus sometimes?" Clint just nodded. "What were you hoping for?" He didn't completely catch Clint's mumble as the archer grabbed at the maps and papers before running from the room. "Okay?" Checking for his keys as he stood up, Coulson muttered, "isn't like I haven't already said that you're pretty much all the family I need, anyways. Or want."


	29. Chapter 29

This chapter brought to you by a left turn at Albuquerque and a question.

* * *

"Three days," Clint muttered under his breath as he turned on the TV in his room. "How'm I supposed to figure all this out in three days?" He looked over the envelopes scattered across his bed. "Okay. I can do this." He carefully opened all of the envelopes, reading the pamphlet that was tucked into each letter, then either tossing them into a pile on the bed or onto the floor. "So, work it out. What'd be easiest?" He stood up and searched through his desk for a notepad and pen and started making lists. "Still think they're all nuts." Still mumbling to himself, he didn't hear the knock or the door open.

"You know, Clint," Coulson's voice made Clint jump. "Talking to yourself is generally a bad idea when you're someplace that you shouldn't be heard."

"Yeah, but I'm in my room. Anybody listening in deserves whatever they hear." Clint went back to staring at his lists. "Um, how'm I supposed to choose one of these?"

"Close your eyes and pick one?" Coulson looked between the piles on the bed and the floor.

"Bad attempt at a joke, boss." Clint shook his head. "When's your birthday? I'll get you a joke book."

"Private." Coulson sat down in the desk chair. "Think about your options. You'll need someplace to stay. I wouldn't recommend staying on campus; harder to just disappear. So you'll want a school that's close to a safe house."

"Can't I stay here?" Clint glanced over at Coulson. "Sure, safe house would probably be the most logical, yeah, but they don't have things like the range and I do need to practice." He paused with a sly grin. "And a chance to sneak into places that you probably don't want to know about and if anybody asks, I was in here all night. And Intel might want to check out the bottom left drawer of the desk under the air vent."

"We'll see. Now. How big of a school?" Coulson reached out and grabbed Clint's notepad. "It actually looks like you've narrowed it down quite a bit."

"Yeah." Clint held out some letters. "These three. One's in New York City, one's in Pennsylvania, one's in Virginia."

"So," Coulson leaned back in the chair. "Why were you so confused?"

"Not just choosing one, but cover story too." Clint pointed at the notepad. "Top page. I'm thinking that I can be living with an aunt and uncle. Aunt has whatever Medical suggests."

"Good start. You'll want to think about where you're from, because you do have a bit of an accent sometimes, usually when you're stressed." Coulson closed his eyes, thinking. "I'd suggest Midwestern states other than Iowa. Also why you're with an aunt and uncle, because that will raise questions about parents. I'll look up hospitals near the Pennsylvania and Virginia schools since you're doing the sick relative route; you come up with names. Also siblings, cousins, that sort of thing."

"'Kay." Clint nodded. "You're okay with being an uncle?"

"It's a new one for me, but I think I'll survive." Coulson nodded. "Now. Canada. Good to go?"

"In a couple days, like you wanted." Clint nodded. "Pilots agree that landing on the mountain'll work. Want some more time with my bow on the range and testing those new arrows, but yeah. Should be good." He pointed at a corner of his room. "Have everything else that I think I'll need already; just have to fill some water bottles."

"Good. And Intel?"

"I _told_ 'em, boss, they keep on sending me stuff that I can't read, I'd have to do something about it. They sent me an update on the guy in all the wrong colors, so I did something about it. Not my fault they can't listen to and remember a polite request."

* * *

Clint dumped his bag on the floor and gently placed his bow and quiver on a seat in the back of the Quinjet before going to lean over the pilot's shoulder. "Hey. You guys still cool with the mountain?" He glanced back as Coulson entered the jet and the pilot nodded. "Heya, sir."

"Clint." Coulson nodded. "Good to go?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Next question. College decisions?"

In response, Clint went to his bag and pulled out some papers. "Pennsylvania. I like the weather, although it was a close call between it and Virginia. New York's just too…crowded. Also think I finished a cover story."

"Which is?"

"Aunt Mary and Uncle whatever-the-hell you want to be called. Aunt has cancer. I went to live with them because they're close to school. Parents are back home in Kansas. No siblings and cousins are all off wherever. Good?"

"Mary?" Coulson looked curiously at Clint. "I don't think that was your mother's name."

"Yeah, Medical came up with it." Clint shrugged as the jet took off. "Meg wouldn't tell me why, just that they had fun and wish they could be more involved in figuring stuff out like that instead of," he paused to think before pitching his voice to sound closer to the nurse's, "'just patching up idiot agents.'"

Coulson was trying to hold back a smile. "Typhoid Mary then, I'm thinking if Meg was saying that it was fun. You can look her up later. And that's a good start." Taking the papers, he scanned them then scribbled a name down. "You'll need to flesh it all out a little bit more, since people will probably be asking a lot of questions, but I'll take it. You have two weeks until orientation. That's your deadline." He started scanning the rest of the papers. "When we get back I'll get a car set up for you to use. Don't expect anything flashy; you're supposed to be a broke college student. And Intel said that they'd try to remember better next time, but they'd also love to know how you managed to avoid the cameras." He handed over a manila envelope. "And the update that is now in black and white."

"Really, Coulson." Clint smirked as he pulled out a map and some pictures. "Did you even _look_ at some of the stuff that I was learning? I hacked into their cameras and deleted the video."

"Oh, for the love of," Coulson sighed. "Clint, that wasn't the reason why you had to learn all that."

"Practice?" Clint glanced up with a grin. "And it was fun?" He looked back down at the map, tracing different routes from the landing zone to the target's location with a finger. "'Sides, I can hack into SHIELD computers, I can probably get into others, right? From what I've seen, SHIELD's a bit more advanced than other places."

"Some groups are close, but yes." Coulson nodded. "When it comes to a lot of our targets, though, you're right."

"And for people that're supposed to be smart, they should've looked at the timestamps. Couldn't figure out how to change those, so there's a good 15 minutes or so that aren't there anymore."

"15 minutes?" Coulson shook his head. "Next time, you've got five, especially for an office that small."

"Yeah, well, I can't type very fast still." Clint muttered. "And aren't you supposed to _discourage_ pulling pranks?"

"If you can take it, Clint, you can give it. That's always been my position. Although don't even think about going after my quarters."

Clint nodded, wondering if Coulson was leaving him loopholes on purpose, or if he was just overlooking things.

"I have a purpose behind everything, Clint. Don't forget that." Coulson held up the college paperwork before sealing it in its envelope. "This is good. And you need to work on your facial expressions; you're like an open book."

* * *

Clint made a face at the bright sunlight when the jet landed, pulling out his sunglasses before picking up his bag. "Okay then." He reached for his quiver.

"Clint." Coulson was holding out a radio and earpiece. "Try not to babble too much. I've got work to do." As Clint nodded and slipped out of the jet, still adjusting his things, Coulson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. Opening it, he sighed at the orders Fury had handed him that morning. These weren't ones that he was allowed to refuse. "I'll need your help, gentlemen," he said, moving to the cockpit. "We're going to need to pull something on Barton, preferably sometime tomorrow."

"Sir?" The pilot glanced back. "We're scheduled to be here for three days, you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Coulson made himself sound firm. "This is a target that, if Barton can't pull it off, we can quite easily take him out with the on-board weapons."

"I don't like it, kid seemed a little high strung to me." The co-pilot shook his head. "And it's not in my job description, playing tricks on people."

"Sir, could it get all this done faster?" The pilot was glancing between Coulson and the co-pilot. At Coulson's nod, he frowned. "Jack, rumor has it that Psych is actually going to beat Medical in their basketball game this year, and that's supposed to be happening day after tomorrow. I'll do it, sir." He paused. "What is it, by the way?"

"Just telling Barton that we've been captured but you got free." Coulson didn't move. "Few words over the radio, that's it."

"Can I ask why?"

Coulson raised one eyebrow at the number of questions he was being asked. "Luckily for you, I'm able to answer that one. It's a test. He passes if he completes the mission before coming back. If he doesn't, that just means more work for him." Moving back to a seat, he tried to get comfortable. Giving it up as a lost cause, he pulled out the work he'd brought and waited for Clint to call in. It took longer than expected before he heard the radio.

"Here. Up a tree. Few more men than Intel said there'd be." Clint sounded slightly distracted. "No plane, some sort of tanks near the house that look like they hold propane or gas. No car, either, but a whole lotta people in the house."

"Your plan?" Coulson flipped open the report from Intel.

"Hang out in my tree and watch for a bit, see if I can actually see the target." Now Clint's tone was scornful. "Same plan as when I left the damn jet. Lovely hike through the woods, blow some stuff up, kill some guys, and then you come and get me because I _so_ don't want to hike back up that hill. It's steeper than the map says. Then go home. Or I could go and knock on the door and say that I brought booze. That's a college thing, right?"

Clint shook his head at the lack of response, shifting position slightly and double-checking the knot on his safety line. He felt an odd flashback to the circus and how he'd just wait on his perch there until it was time for him to perform. Except that this time, his "performance" was to kill people. He smirked and let out an amused breath, thinking over how much his attitude had changed. Glancing up at the sky, he pushed his sunglasses back into place with one finger and settled back against the tree trunk. He wasn't quite sure about sleeping and suddenly wished he'd brought a book or some music. This was going to be boring. Trying to get a little more comfortable, Clint just stared at the house.

The sun woke Clint from the light doze he'd fallen into, and he quickly glanced around. Everything inside the house was still quiet, and he carefully pulled out a granola bar before keying up his radio. "Morning. Nothing changed except that the party ended way too early, a whole herd of deer came through, and a skunk camped out under my tree for a bit."

"That's nice. Check in this evening." Clint blinked at the blunt tone of Coulson's voice. He wondered if the other man had actually slept – the floor of a Quinjet probably wasn't the most comfortable, but it was better than a tree. And they had coffee and hot food, instead of water and some granola bars. With a shake of his head, Clint shouldered his bow and untied his safety line, carefully climbing out of the tree. He'd take a walk around, just to make sure that his impressions of the area were the same as last night. And to work the cramps out.

* * *

Coulson glanced at his watch a few hours later and nodded. "Do it."

Shaking his head, the pilot keyed up the radio. "Barton." Looking over at Coulson, he asked, "Still sure you want to do this, sir?"

"I'm sure." Coulson didn't like doing this to Clint, but he'd rather risk the archer getting mad now than making a bad decision in the future.

"Yeah." The radio crackled to life.

With a deep breath, the pilot pushed the transmit button. "Situation. Eight, nine guys with guns showed up. I got away. Orders?"

Clint took a deep breath, closing his eyes and tightening his hold on his bow. "_Fuck_," he whispered to himself. "Fuck. Okay." Glaring at the house, he shifted position on the branch slightly as he keyed his radio. "What can you tell me?"

"Just that. Some guys, armed. I wasn't in the jet, but saw it. They stormed in, grabbed Agent Coulson and Jack, and now they're all just sitting there. Our guys are tied up, one guy's got a gun pointing at them. I'm just a pilot, I don't know what to do."

Clint wanted to kill Coulson, then resurrect him and kill him again. Coulson wasn't supposed to _get_ caught. He was _Coulson_. Invincible. "Okay. Sit tight. I'm on my," he stopped, trying to think. SHIELD over Coulson, as much as it may hurt. Target first. Clint shook his head, trying to reconcile the _need_ to complete the mission with his _want_ to get back to the jet. Everybody was alive so far, and injuries healed, if they were even hurt. "Does it look like they're talking with anybody over the radio? Does it look like anybody's hurt?" He shoved his sunglasses down, roughly squeezing the bridge of his nose. He didn't _like_ the feeling that his decision to finish the mission was both right and wrong at the same time, and it just added to his overall aggravation and stress.

The pilot glanced at Coulson, who shook his head. "No. At least, it doesn't look like it. And they hit Coulson over the head, but he's awake and looking a little pissed."

"Okay. He always looks at _least_ a little pissed. Are you secure?"

Coulson nodded and smiled a little as the pilot grinned. "Secure enough, I think."

"Good." A faint explosion sounded through the radio. "Lemme finish here and I'll be on my way back to check it all out. Tell me if it looks like anything changes there, understand?"

Clint drew another arrow, checking to see that it was one of the exploding ones. He had to hand it to R and D: they knew how to create some nice explosions. Aiming at the house, he watched as it hit the roof. Slight pressure from his index finger had it exploding, and people were suddenly running outside. "Stupid," he muttered to himself as his eyes narrowed, searching for the primary target. "Only having one good door like that. Always have at least one other exit." Spotting the man responsible for his newest nightmare, Clint led his target slightly and loosed the arrow, smiling slightly as he watched it hit the man in the head. "Boom," he whispered. Just in case. Another handful of arrows, and he was out of targets.

As Clint lightly dropped to the ground, he ran his fingers over the arrows he had left. There were more than ten, so he was good, especially if he could meet up with the pilot. With a fast glance around, he started heading back to the plane. "Dammit, they were supposed to come and pick me up, not get caught."

* * *

As he approached the tree line, Clint stopped. "Status."

The men in the jet all jumped slightly as Clint called in, and a shake of Coulson's head had the pilot sitting back in his seat. "Wait."

"Repeat, status."

"Don't say anything; let him work it out himself." Coulson glanced around as he closed the file he was looking at. "Might want to start your preflight checks, though. And be prepared for him to be a little upset."

"Dumbass," Clint muttered. "Probably got himself caught. Or is asleep." Finding a good tree, he quickly climbed up and looked around. Spotting the jet, he frowned as he slid back to the ground.

Coulson just nodded as Clint stormed up, hoping that the archer would listen and not just react. "Success?"

"Bastard." Clint pleasantly said as he walked into the jet. "Same to you two, for going along with this." Dropping his quiver and bow on a seat and his bag on the floor, he pulled the radio out of his ear and turned it off. "You owe me, sir."

"I didn't ask that, Barton." Coulson just stood there with his arms folded. "I asked if you were successful in your mission."

"I'm back, aren't I?" Clint didn't know how he was feeling. "Arrow in the head and it even blew up when I pushed the button. Hard for anybody to survive that. I also blew up some fuel tanks and killed everybody that I saw, which even thinking that there was trouble here felt pretty damn good because I also recognized a couple of 'em. Then I had a slightly stressful hike back here, only to find that you _lied_ to me."

Coulson frowned. "Outside, Barton," he ordered, then turned to the pilots. "You see nothing, you hear nothing. You will be ready to take off when we return, understand?" Pulling his gun, he dropped it on a seat, noting that Clint had left his bow and arrows behind. With a deep breath and a firm nod, Coulson calmly walked down the ramp. He'd halfway expected the fist swinging at his face, and Coulson just grabbed it and spun Clint around, forcing the younger man further away from the jet. "Not a word, Barton."

Clint ignored the order as he struggled slightly against the hold. "You're a damn _bastard_, Coulson, pulling that shit. You _promised_ to not lie to me."

"I didn't lie." Coulson calmly swept Clint's feet out from under him, following the archer to the ground. "I didn't say a single word over the radio since you checked in this morning."

"You made the pilot lie, and that's close enough. _You_ lied to me."

"You're very stuck on that word, Clint. So use your damn brain and listen to me, then think it over. I was ordered to test you, and frankly, isn't it better to know that this was a test that you passed instead of having it be a real-life situation where you fail?" Coulson forced his voice to remain even as he shoved Clint's hand up to be further away from the knife he could see and shifted one knee to rest on Clint's free hand. "Because next time it might not be a test."

Clint didn't respond as he assessed the situation and how to turn it around on Coulson. Jerking his head back, he managed to get one knee up and used that as leverage. Ignoring the twinges he could feel, he twisted around and broke Coulson's grip before scrambling back slightly. "There shouldn't've had to have _been_ a test. Don't you _trust_ me?" He could feel his voice start to crack slightly and he just stayed there, staring at the ground and his bleeding hand.

"_Yes_, Clint, I trust you. _Fury_ trusts you. But Fury's bosses don't trust you like we do and _they're_ the ones who said to do this." Coulson prayed that Clint would never find out that that statement was partially false. "Hopefully now they'll trust you more. But they don't trust most people; I don't think they really trust Fury."

"Still." Clint pulled off his sunglasses. Turning, he glared at Coulson. "You still followed the order and it was a fucking _stupid_ order." Shoving his sunglasses back on and standing up, Clint finished, "you _owe_ me."

Coulson didn't move from his seat on the ground as he watched Clint storm back to the jet. Pulling an envelope out of his pocket, he ripped it open and slipped out the papers, giving them a fast glance. Shaking his head, Coulson found a pen and crossed out a couple lines, rewriting the information. He'd never really liked going by the name Paul anyways, and this was probably the best apology he could give. Standing up, he replaced the papers in the envelope and headed back for the jet. He heard the ramp closing behind him, and saw Clint bent over a pad of paper, hand bandaged, writing furiously. Moving to stand behind the pilots as the jet lifted off, Coulson murmured, "Stop by the target first. There's space to land; there is a runway unless it was completely destroyed."

Clint just glanced up as he felt the jet land. Recognizing that they weren't back on the Helicarrier, he focused back down on the paper in his lap and the report he was writing. He knew he wasn't thinking straight about what Coulson had done, but he didn't really care. A kick at his ankle had him looking up again.

"Clint. You may be pissed off, but you still need to do your job. Get up and walk me through this place." Coulson turned and left the jet, assuming that Clint would follow. A fast look told him everything that he needed to know, so he only partially listened as he walked around. He sighed at the loss of the building and any potential information that was inside, turning to face Clint. "Okay. Back to the jet. We're done here."

The flight back to the Helicarrier was quiet, and the level of tension had Coulson worried. "Clint." When the archer didn't look up from the paper in his lap, Coulson sighed. "Dammit, Clint," he started as he moved to a seat next to Clint. "You're right. I was wrong." He kept his voice low. "I should not have done that; I should have taken those orders and told Fury to figure out another way to placate the Council. But I didn't, and I'm sorry for that." Clint's only response was to tear the top two pages off the pad in his lap and hold them out.

Clint watched out of the corner of his eye as Coulson visibly tensed and took the papers. He'd spent the time that he was writing also thinking; and while he would probably never be happy about what had been pulled, he was starting to think that he understood why. He allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up slightly as Coulson relaxed. "May not be happy with anybody right now, sir, but I'm not going to leave over something _stupid_. I can understand why you pulled that. Kinda." He turned slightly in his seat and pulled off his sunglasses, staring at Coulson. "But if you _ever_ pull anything like that again, I don't know what I'll do. Taking a swing at you will be the _least_ of your worries, I do know that." At Coulson's nod, he slouched back and closed his eyes. "So yeah. But I still trust you." He felt something being dropped into his lap and opened one eye, seeing that it was the letter to the college. "Why'd you open it? Thought it was all good."

"Take a look." Coulson shook his head. "I changed a few things. I was going to just let you find out at orientation, but I think that you don't want to be surprised like that so soon after today."

Clint sat back up, pulling out the papers. Reading the changes, he smiled. "Thanks, sir. Be easier to remember. And, yanno," he shrugged as he put the papers back, "thanks. Again."


	30. Chapter 30

School. Thanks to Zara and Hawk at The Beta Branch for making a few fixes.

* * *

Clint essentially vanished as soon as he was cleared by Medical and Psych, but one morning about a week later Coulson looked up at a sound and saw Clint sitting in a chair by his desk. "Nice to see you're alive," he started, then saw how stiffly the archer was sitting. "Clint?"

"Just," Clint started to shrug, then stopped with a low hiss. "Too much time on the range is all. And in the gym. And hiding."

"Hiding?" Coulson reached in his desk drawer for some painkillers. When he couldn't find them in their normal spot, he frowned slightly and dug deeper. "Why were you hiding? Was that scientist bugging you again?"

"No." Clint sounded subdued. "I was kinda maybe hiding from you and almost everybody on this boat."

"Clint…" Coulson sat up straight. "I don't have any painkillers in here. Let's go."

"Sir, I'm fine." Clint objected. "And I was hiding from you because I was confused and it took me this long to really get over being mad at you for what you did."

"You're not fine." Standing up, Coulson gestured at the door. "Why did it take you a week?"

With a frustrated sigh, Clint stood up and followed Coulson. "Dunno. I mean, I understand _why_, but I still don't understand why. Because why would Fury's bosses be interested in _me_? Why not do the same thing with anybody else here? And I thought that he was in charge, why does he have bosses?"

"From what I've been told, the World Security Council does a few different things. As to why they're interested in you, I don't know. And," Coulson held up one hand when he saw Clint start to open his mouth, "I don't know who you can ask. I can theorize, but the odds are that I would be wrong."

"Oh." Clint stayed silent and followed Coulson. He wasn't surprised when they ended up at Medical. "Sir, I'm _fine_, really." He couldn't hide his wince when Coulson tapped his shoulder.

"Your definition of fine and my definition of fine are obviously not the same thing, and today we are going to be using my definition." Coulson kept his tone mild. "If you're going to pull off convincing me, that means being able to control your responses and being able to relax. Besides, maybe they'll be a little more successful in beating it into your head the idea of taking care of yourself. I thought you understood that, but obviously not." He nodded at a tech. "Please get a doctor for Agent Barton. It's not an emergency." Turning back to Clint, he pointed at a chair. "Sit. And maybe you'll also start to think about what it truly means to have responsibilities here. You could be called off tonight for an urgent mission. With how you're feeling right now, do you think you could successfully complete it, with either your bow or a rifle?"

"I just need a hot shower and a chance to stretch some more." Clint had ignored Coulson's order to sit and was slowly wandering around. "I didn't get one before I came to see you, is all. You're making it sound like I'm some raw beginner who doesn't know how to warm up and cool down properly."

"One foot closer to the door, Barton, and you'll be coming up with a reason why you're a week late starting classes, because that's how long you'll be stuck either sitting in my office or being security someplace boring." Clint froze at the tone of Coulson's voice, then slowly started walking back as the tech reappeared. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Clint couldn't hold back his triumphant "see?" when the doctor just sighed, handed him a bottle of ibuprofen, and told him to go take a hot shower and stretch some. Leaving the exam room, Clint smirked and said "_Told _you, sir. Stop being such a, a _nanny_."

"Eat more. So skinny, how're you ever going to find a wife?"

Clint stopped and stared at Coulson for a minute, before laughing. "_Nice_ one, sir."

"I try." Coulson shook his head, inwardly pleased that for once Clint hadn't immediately offered to get him a joke book. "You've got an hour, then I want you in my office to go over some more things for your cover story for school, I've got some other things that you need to deal with, and you need to take a look at some intel and start mission planning. Target's in Hawaii this time."

* * *

"Wow." Clint stared at the chaos of the college campus. "Still think you're all nuts, sir, expecting me to do this." Shaking his head as he opened the door, he grabbed his backpack and scanned the chaos, leaning back against the car as Coulson joined him and a woman in a bright green t-shirt came bouncing up.

"Hi! Welcome! Check-in is in the gym, you can drive right up to the dorms to unload, and there's a movie being shown on the football field tonight at nine, bring your own blankets. Have fun!"

Clint just blinked in surprise as she ran off to another car. "Again, wow. Are they all like that?"

"I wouldn't know." Coulson shook his head. "Let's go, we've got a bit of a time crunch here. Got that map? We're actually going over to talk to somebody in Administration."

"Yeah." Clint dug it out as the woman in the t-shirt came running back.

"Do you two need some help? Gym is that building right there."

"No, we need to go to talk with one of the deans." Coulson glanced at his watch. "He said that he would be in the Admin building?"

"Oh," the woman paused. "Okay. Admin building is the big red one right down there. Good luck!" She ran off again and Clint curiously watched her go.

"She's…bouncy. Do you think that everybody here is like that?"

"For your sake, I hope not." Coulson started walking. "And for mine, because I know that you'll come home every night and drive me up the wall with your complaining."

"Thanks, I think." Clint was looking around him. "Do I really complain that much?"

"It depends on the day and how you're feeling." Coulson nodded. "This is a very interesting looking campus, I will admit. Was that one of the reasons you chose it?"

"Nope." Clint shook his head. "At least, not on purpose."

"Ah." Coulson dodged as somebody carrying a stack of boxes almost ran into him. "You know, I'm very glad that you decided that living at home would be more logical."

"Oh?"

"The sheer amount of stuff that you'd have to get." Coulson led the way into the building and with a fast glance around headed for a staircase. "Bad enough you chose a school that you have to shuttle back and forth to."

"It was on the list, and you didn't say no." Clint defended his decision. "Nobody else did, either. Couple people I asked said that it was actually a good thing."

"Explain why later." Coulson glanced at Clint before knocking on a door. "Hello. Dean Mann?"

"Yes?" A man stood up from behind a desk. "Phil and Clinton? Come on in, have a seat." He pointed at a couple chairs as Coulson shut the door. "So, welcome. You're here because of that strange agreement we've got with the government?"

"Exactly." Coulson nodded as Clint took the chance to glance around the office. "You should have all the paperwork, correct?"

"I do." The dean nodded. "So, Clinton, let's start to get you set up."

"Clint." Clint shook his head. "_Nobody_ calls me Clinton." At Coulson's look, he amended, "Well, unless I _really_ screw up."

"Clint. Okay then. I understand that you're going to be commuting in, and taking a look at what I was sent, you actually haven't been in school in a while?"

"No." Clint shifted nervously. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. I'm not going to recommend a full course load this semester, however, just so that you can get into the swing of it all." The dean nodded, picking up a small book and starting to flip through it. Tilting his head, Clint saw that it was a course catalog. "So, to that end, I'd recommend taking, oh, two classes."

"The agreement is the minimum number of credit hours required to remain full-time, with a preference towards classes that aren't first thing or in the evening." Clint felt relieved when Coulson jumped in, since he knew that he didn't know everything that the dean was going to ask. "How many classes would that be?"

"It depends on the class." Shaking his head, the dean pulled out a piece of paper from a folder on his desk and gave it a quick look. "You're coming in completely undeclared? No idea about a major?"

"Nope." Clint shrugged. "Hadn't thought that part through yet."

"No idea at all…" the dean trailed off. "Okay. Science, either physical or social. Math. We've got a required literature course, so that'll bring you up to full-time status and get you started towards the general education requirements. What sort of science do you want?"

"Physics," Coulson said. "Trust me, Clint, you're good at that."

"Maybe. That one will depend on placement tests." The dean leaned forward, staring at Clint and Coulson. "Let me be brutally honest here, because while we've got this agreement set up, nobody's actually _used_ it before now, so it's really a learning experience for us. Clint's coming in with a GED – amazing scores, by the way, you'd've probably been killer in high school with scores like that – and nothing else. He's going to have to play a lot of catch up, and since I've been told that he's going to be disappearing at times, that's going to make his life a lot harder on the classroom front. I highly doubt that you'll graduate in four years; if you take summer classes you're looking at needing at least five, if not six. I strongly recommend that you use the resources offered by the school; they're either free or don't cost a lot. Plus, you're three, four years older than the vast majority of the people who will be in your classes, not living on campus, and you're going to be probably moving through everything slower. That's going to also make things difficult on a more social front." As he stood up, the dean nodded. "So, now that we've chatted, go and pick up your orientation schedule, and come see me tomorrow and we'll get your classes finalized after you've taken those placement tests."

Clint held back his desire to argue or make a face. Instead, he tried his school cover out and grinned. "No worries, sir. I'm not here to make friends." He was aware of Coulson's almost invisible nod, and shrugged. "So, guess we've got stuff to do?"

"We do. Thank you, Dean Mann." Coulson stood up, reaching out and shaking the dean's hand.

"Placement tests?" Clint shook his head as they walked towards the exit. "Nobody said anything about tests. And I hate tests."

"You don't have a high school transcript, just GED scores." Coulson didn't sound surprised at the question. "They just want to know where to put you. Same thing when," he paused, glancing around, "same thing as when you first started and you had all those tests. And you'll survive, because that's just part of life." Stepping out of the building, he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and nodded. "So. Guess we need to head over to the gym."

"Probably." Clint was looking around curiously. "Yanno, this could be fun?"

* * *

"Hi!" Clint decided that everybody involved in the freshman orientation had to be on some form of drugs, they were all so cheery. "Last name?"

"Barton." Clint shifted nervously, feeling slightly on edge in the crowded, noisy room.

"Barton…Barton…Clinton?" The man glanced up at Clint. "Here it is. So," he flipped the folder open and pulled out a couple papers, picking up a pen. "Looks like you're scheduled for a couple tests at noon and two. You'll want to attend _these_ sessions for sure, because they go over some basics about the school and different resources that are here. Lunch is being served in the Commons right now. You're scheduled to meet with your adviser tomorrow afternoon. The rest of this stuff is also a lot of fun; you can meet your new classmates and start to get to know them. This your dad? Parent orientation is being held here; some parents find it useful, others don't. Up to you. Bookstore has extended hours through the end of orientation so you can get your stuff." He was quickly circling things on a map and a schedule. Tucking everything back into the folder, he held it out and pointed with his free hand. "ID cards are over there, financial stuff is over there, housing is over there, and freshmen aren't allowed cars on campus so don't worry about a parking permit."

"Not even commuters?" Clint shrugged at the curious look he was getting. "Have to live at home."

"Okay then. You'll need to stop by the security office with your car's registration to get that dealt with. They're off of the Commons; hard to miss. Welcome, have fun."

"Lines. All these lines." Clint muttered as he and Coulson walked over to get his ID. "Lines _suck_."

"It'll get better, and it could be worse. You could be waiting in those." Coulson jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the financial aid and housing lines.

"Point." Clint nodded. Glancing at his watch, he nodded. "So, lunch line after this line?"

* * *

"Yeah, so I know this kinda looks bad, Professor Van Buren, but I'm going to need to miss class next week." Clint rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to look nervous in front of his math professor. Frantically trying to remember the details about his cover story, he continued, "See, my mom's gotta go to the hospital for some surgery and she's the type that freaks out if my dad and I aren't there." At the professor's nod, he rushed on, "She's…sick. So yeah. I know I'll be gone one class, maybe even two or three. It depends on how everything goes."

"How many classes do you anticipate missing this semester, Clint?" The professor was glancing at the schedule he'd handed out. "Because that will affect your grade."

"I've talked with Dean Mann and he's said it's all okay, provided I get my homework turned in either on time or early, and if you are okay with me taking tests and quizzes around when I'm gone." Clint shrugged. "My mom's either really sick or feeling okay, and I'm needed at home or at the hospital when she's really sick. And I can't predict that."

"What is wrong with your mother?"

Clint sighed slightly. "Cancer. And that's all that she lets me say."

"Since you've cleared it with Dean Mann, I guess it has to be okay with me. I just don't like it, because you'll be missing out on lectures and will have to teach yourself some of this. But, after reading the book and doing the homework, if you have any questions come and see me. What other classes are you taking this semester?"

"Intro psych and lit for dummies." Clint grinned. "Professor Voss really did introduce it that way. And I'm not worried about missing out on stuff; my dad said that he'd help me out, and I've always been able to talk the nurses into answering questions if they're not busy."

"That's good then." The professor leaned against the lectern. "And Clint? Good luck to your mom, and thanks for giving me advanced notice."

Stepping outside the building, Clint glanced at his watch before turning and heading for his next class. Psychology was probably the class that he was the most nervous about; Dean Mann had actually apologized that he was putting Clint in the section that he was, and when Clint's assigned advisor had seen the schedule he'd been given, she couldn't hide her wince. They both had told Clint that the minute he started having problems, to say something. Slipping into the classroom, he found a seat by the wall and pulled out a notebook, idly sketching while he waited.

"That's different," a voice had him glancing up, seeing an older woman peering at his notebook. "Are you an artist?"

"No ma'am. Archery's a hobby of mine." Clint looked back down at the paper, where he'd halfway finished a drawing of a bow. "Just waiting for class to start, since I'm early."

"Better to be early than to be late. I'm Doctor Davis, not ma'am."

Startled at the annoyed tone, Clint didn't know how to respond at first. "I'm sorry, Doctor Davis. It's been drilled it into my head to use ma'am or sir if I don't know a person's name. I'm Clint Barton."

"Barton. Tell me why that name's familiar." The professor crossed her arms and stared at Clint.

"Did Dean Mann talk to you, Doctor? He said that he was, since I'll be missing a few classes during the semester." Clint felt uncomfortable sitting, and stood up. He hunched his shoulders slightly, trying to seem smaller. It worked with Coulson sometimes. "I'll actually be gone for a class or two in a week. Mom's going in for surgery, and she needs me to be there."

"Yes, he did, and he also said that it might be multiple times during the semester. Why do you need to be there?"

Clint shrugged. "She panics if my dad and I aren't at the hospital with her." He glanced over at the door as people started to trickle into the room. "But Dean Mann approved it all when I met with him during orientation."

"A polite, responsible young male who puts his family first and understands how to work with the system. Will wonders never cease." The professor looked narrowly at Clint. "I want to know as soon as you do when you'll be gone and for how long. You will turn in everything early, no matter if you are going to be present or not. You are responsible for getting notes from a classmate for the lectures that you miss, and you will receive zeros for any in-class activities that you miss. Understood?"

"Yes, Doctor Davis." Clint nodded. He'd have to wait to ask Coulson if that conversation fell into the "having problems" category. As the professor walked up to the front of the room and started writing on the chalkboard, he sat back down in his seat with a small sigh and a glance at his notebook. Maybe a laser sight…

"Wow, you're brave." Clint looked over at the student sitting next to him. "Everybody knows that the guys who take classes with Davis are either stupid, unlucky, or masochists, mostly because she doesn't like men. So which one are you?"

"Unlucky." Clint shrugged. "Was just told to take this class."

"I wish you luck, then." The student turned to face the front of the room. "You'll need it."

* * *

"The literature professor is nuts and that's saying a lot coming from me, the math professor seems to be pretty cool, and the psych professor hates the entire male gender and is making me turn everything in early, no matter what. Girl in the class told me that the guys taking her classes are unlucky, masochists, or stupid."

"Do you even know what masochist means?" Coulson nodded at Clint's report, standing behind the archer as Clint rapidly sent arrows downrange.

"Looked it up, I'm not stupid. Psych professor also hates to be called ma'am and called me a 'polite, responsible young man' and then said something about family and working with the system. Only possible problem is that if I'm gone, it's an automatic zero on everything for the day in that class; the other two were a lot cooler with it all." Clint paused, putting his bow down and stretching his shoulders and hands. "So yeah. First day. I didn't want to kill anybody and I remembered my cover story, and the pilots said that they're already taking bets on how long it'll take me to get fed up with them having to fly me in and actually finish my flight training, although they do like the fact that they don't have to spend quite as much time in the simulator."

"Okay. I can't say that I'm happy about what your psych professor is saying, but keep your head down and see if you can get assignments early, too. Make an appointment to talk with her and come up with a list of questions."

Clint just nodded, picking up his bow again, then setting it back down with a sigh. Hitting the button to bring his target in, he turned to look at Coulson. "I'll try, but I think she actually gave us most of it today. Guess I can just get started on all that?"

"It'll have to wait. Mission has been pushed up. How soon can you be ready to leave?"

"Um," Clint didn't immediately respond, choosing instead to pull arrows out of the target. "First thing tomorrow morning."

"Why not right now?" Clint suspected that Coulson was testing him. Again.

"Because, boss," Clint shoved back his feelings of self-doubt and annoyance, "I want to go back over the intel, get a decent night's sleep in my own bed, and,"

"And try to settle in your head the fact that you're going to be up close and personal this time?" Coulson nodded. "Understood. Am I going to need to pull out the big guns on this one?"

"Why, because she's a girl? No." Clint shook his head. "I saw the pictures, and all I can say about those is that I just wish that somebody had taken her out sooner 'cause you just don't _do_ that sort of thing. No, I wanted to also see if I can sneak that anatomy book out of Medical and try to remember where some of the big arteries are. She may need to die, but I don't have to drag it out. That's just wrong." Shoving the arrows back into his quiver, he quickly unstrung his bow and gave it a fast once-over.

Coulson followed him to the armory. "Do you remember your training?" He lightly tapped a couple spots on Clint's neck. "Here and here are usually the best places, if you're using a knife. Although if everything goes the way that you've planned, you can use your gun."

"That reminds me." Clint glanced around, looking for one of the armory workers. "Hey. D'you have a silencer that'll work with whatever handguns you guys are giving out these days? Thanks." Picking up a couple spare magazines and a fresh target, Clint headed back to the firing line. "So yeah, sir. Tomorrow morning. First thing." Screwing the silencer on, Clint pushed his safety glasses back into position and sent the target downrange before starting to fire.

* * *

"Excuse me, Doctor Davis?" Clint knew he looked beaten up. Medical was worried about him pulling the stitches in his arm and was making him wear a sling, and the bruise on his face had only just started to fade. "I have my work for next week for you. Also had a question about an assignment."

Doctor Davis stared straight at Clint. "What happened to you?"

"Fell." Clint kept his answer simple, and held out the papers. "I can be a little clumsy sometimes, and I was tired."

"You _fell_, Mister Barton? What did you fall into?" Doctor Davis didn't take her gaze off Clint as she took the pile of papers and put them down on the table. "A fist? Or did the fist help you fall?"

"It was slippery." Clint kept to the story that he'd decided would be vague enough. "And I fell."

"I don't believe that one bit, but go sit down, and see me at the end of class." As Clint turned away to return to his seat, she added, "Mister Barton. There are resources, you know. Places you can go, people you can call if you're not feeling safe."

Clint stiffened at the implication and turned back around. "Doctor Davis. My mother is sick. She was in the hospital. The floor was slippery. I fell. End of story." Spinning on his heel, he stalked back to his desk. Out of everybody he'd talked to on campus, he decided that he hated this reaction the most. In math he'd just gotten a curious look and a "hope this was a once-off," and his literature professor had nodded and asked if the other guy looked as bad.

Clint only halfway paid attention during class, trying to decide how he could best handle this professor. He was aware of the looks he was getting from his classmates and the professor; they made him uncomfortable and he debated just getting up and walking out. Deciding that ignoring the comments from the beginning of class as well as all of the looks was his best option, when the class was over Clint just picked up his notebook and walked up to the professor. "So, Doctor Davis, I was wondering about this one assignment."

"Mister Barton," the professor started, "you do know that there are reporting laws that I'm required to follow?"

Setting his jaw, Clint pulled out what he thought of as the "Coulson look," the look that Coulson gave people when he thought that they were being incredibly stupid. "Doctor Davis." He took a breath, trying to stay calm. He wondered how Coulson did it. "How old do you think I am?"

"17, 18, same as everybody else here." The professor raised her eyebrows curiously. "Which means that if I don't report my suspicions, I'm the one who gets in trouble."

"I'm 21." Clint let his voice go flat. "Technically not covered by those laws. And you won't get in trouble for reporting what you think is going on, because there _isn't_ anything going on. I slipped and fell. And my parents really don't need somebody nosing around in our personal lives because we've got enough other stuff going on." Not that there was anything to find, he added to himself. Not even a house. He had a mailbox on campus set up for anything from the school, and his personal records were on a short list of names that would always be misfiled or never found. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go. I'll talk to you another time about this essay."

"Mister Barton, I'm not done yet."

Clint didn't respond at first, going back to his desk and roughly shoving his notebook in his backpack. Picking it up, he looked straight at the professor. "Yes, you are." Ignoring the shocked look on the professor's face, Clint stalked out of the room. Stepping outside, he noticed that it had started raining. "Wonderful," he snarled to himself under his breath. "Stupid weather. Stupid people. Stupid _assumptions_." Roughly adjusting his backpack, he started walking. He was aware of the golf cart pulling up next to him, but ignored it, choosing to keep grumbling under his breath.

"Would you like a ride?" Clint glanced over, seeing one of the security guards. "Here, hop in. Where are you heading?"

"Overflow lot." Clint slumped into the seat, grateful for the ride and the slight protection from the rain. "Thanks."

"All the way out there? In this weather?" The guard glanced over at Clint surprised. "I'm Gary, incidentally. Campus Security. And you are?"

Clint faintly smiled. "Obviously. I'm Clint Barton. Freshman. And I park out there because it's usually a nice walk, I hadn't checked the weather report for the day, and it's also guaranteed parking."

"Well then, let me be one of many to welcome you to this fine establishment. Tell me, Mister Barton, do you know of any relatives that attended this school? A brother, perhaps?" Clint had mentally braced himself for ducking out of more questions about what had happened to him, but the sudden change had him blinking slightly in surprise. When he shook his head, Gary just nodded. "I see. You just remind me of another young man who was at this school, oh, about ten years ago now. He looked very similar to you." Starting to feel amused, Clint just listened as the security officer rambled on about previous students. "And since there is only one car here, I am going to make the assumption that it belongs to you?"

"Yeah. Thanks," Clint added as Gary pulled the golf cart up next to the driver's side door. "Going to have to remember to check the weather forecast in the future."

"Chances of rain for the next week. Have a safe drive home, Mister Barton!" With that cheery parting, Gary drove off and Clint carefully slid into the car.


	31. Chapter 31

Mission reports are not critical essays...and sometimes Medical really does know what they're talking about.

* * *

It was sunny on the Helicarrier when the Quinjet landed. "Lovely," Clint muttered to himself as he headed straight for Coulson's office. Slipping inside, he ignored Coulson's glare and sat down, patiently waiting.

"There was a very high chance that I was talking about something that you don't have the clearance to hear," Coulson announced as he hung up his phone. "And I'm going to guess that after today, you will check the weather forecast for wherever you're going?"

"Yeah." Clint didn't argue that point. "Least it's warm out. But we should've come up with a different story than me being clumsy and falling. Psych professor actually asked what happened, and started saying that somebody's beating me. So obviously you _suck_ at being a dad and I want a new one."

"You _were_ beat up," Coulson pointed out dryly, glancing at his watch. "Consider yourself lucky that you weren't shot, although I think bullet holes are usually easier to deal with than stab wounds."

"Well, yeah, but she started in on the abuse angle. She also thinks that I'm young enough to have to have it reported – I don't think she believed me when I said that I'm 21." Clint shook his head in disgust. "I don't like her."

With a sigh, Coulson leaned forward. "So think it through. You know everything about your cover story, including what the school knows and has been instructed to say and do. Liking her or not doesn't come into play; you just have to work with her for this semester, and obviously you won't take any more of her classes. So what are your options?"

"Um," Clint leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Try talking to her again. But that probably wouldn't work; she seems like the type of person to judge on first impressions and then not change. Funny, 'cause everybody _here_ that I've met who's in that field doesn't judge, or at least not like that, but whatever. Talk to you, which I'm doing." He trailed off, thinking. Sitting up straight, he nodded. "Thanks, boss. I'll see if I can get in and talk with Dean Mann tomorrow, or at least drop him a note. There are probably already rumors running around, but I can ignore that stuff unless somebody comes up and asks me. Might also use my lit professor to start a counter-rumor; he asked if the other guy looked as bad."

"What sort of counter-rumor?"

"Always found that partial truths worked best, so why not just say that I was in a fight?" Clint looked thoughtful. "I mean, I don't have to say that I was out to kill somebody and one of her goons got me with a knife, but that I was in a fight would be easy to remember and I'm able to act convincingly with that one."

"Logical." Coulson nodded. "However, what have you told people already?"

"Oh, point. Hard to go from slipping and falling to being in a fight, yeah. Um, huh." Clint shook his head. "No clue then, Boss."

"This is one that might just need to blow over on its own. Give it a couple weeks and then we'll see."

* * *

"Hey, Dean Mann?" Clint lightly tapped on the door. "Your secretary said you had a couple minutes, and you'd said to come see you if there were any problems. Doctor Davis started a problem."

"Come on in, then, and tell me what's going on." The dean sounded resigned as Clint shut the door and sat down.

"It's…this, sir." Clint gestured at his sling as he started to explain. He found the play of emotions on the dean's face amusing; the man obviously wasn't a poker player. "And, well, I could've been cool with it all if she'd _kept_ it to class stuff, but she also decided that I need to turn everything in early. I think I'm probably two weeks ahead of the rest of the class now." Pulling out the syllabus, he pointed at the schedule. "She's lecturing about _this_ stuff, and I'm doing work on _this_ stuff. Half of it I don't understand. That, and what she said, is already making things difficult."

The dean sighed. "I'll talk to her. However, Clint, you do need to understand something. There are very large consequences if we don't follow through on reports of potential abuse, and Shirley Davis has actually discovered a couple cases in her time here; she's worked with abused kids in the past and it's really her specialty. It's also one of a few reasons why she doesn't seem to like men, and is generally harder on the males in her classes, the introductory ones especially. Should she know better? Of course. But she can't get over that particular prejudice, which is why she's teaching now and not actually in any form of clinical practice. Your best option is to simply keep your head down and play her game. I'll also talk to her about how she's expecting you to turn everything in early, regardless of if you'll be there or not. That wasn't part of the agreement, and I did tell her that."

"What about the rumors? She wasn't exactly quiet in front of everybody else there; that's really more why I came to see you." Clint shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to scratch at his stitches. Classes that day had been uncomfortable, with people giving him awkward looks when they thought he couldn't see. Even his professors were watching him out of the corner of their eyes, like he was an animal at the zoo. The circus had never prepared him for those sorts of looks and in the past year at SHIELD Clint had grown accustomed to being largely ignored.

Dean Mann frowned. Picking up his phone, he pulled the syllabus Clint had offered closer and quickly dialed a number. "Shirley? Patrick Mann. I need to see you in my office, right now. No, it cannot wait; just put a sign up on the door." Glancing at Clint as he hung up, the dean nodded. "That was crossing lines that are there for many reasons, ranging from privacy to safety. You've got a couple options now; one is to simply stay in the class, as uncomfortable as it may be, and the other is to drop it and see where you can be shoehorned in to keep the credits."

Clint shook his head. "I'm not a quitter, sir. I can deal with her, as long as she remembers that she doesn't know everything."

"Am I allowed to say anything about you being from the government?"

"No." Clint was firm on that one. "Boss wants as few people to know as is possible. I'm just a 21-year-old who lives at home because his mom has cancer. I vanish because I go to the hospital with her, and I'm a little bit clumsy." He paused. "And I can definitely say that I won't be majoring in Psychology here."

"Shame, we've one of the best programs in the area." Dean Mann nodded. "So, indulge my curiosity. What exactly do you do for the government?"

"Stuff," Clint shrugged. "And the rest of it is classified."

"Please don't bring any weapons onto my campus." The dean sounded a little on edge, Clint thought.

"Nah." Clint shook his head, then pulled out a pocketknife, not mentioning the other two knives he was carrying. "Well, unless you consider this armed. Dad's a little old fashioned and says that carrying a pocketknife is essential." Returning Dean Mann's grin, Clint slid the knife back into his pocket, making a mental note to clean off the bit of blood that he could see on the handle. He'd _thought_ he'd gotten it all on the way back, but the sunlight was showing him a couple missed spots. A tap on the door had him glancing over his shoulder.

"Shirley. Come on in and have a seat." Dean Mann sounded like he was gearing up for a fight, Clint mused as he watched his psychology professor enter the room. "I've had a couple things brought to my attention, none of it good."

"Mister Barton," the professor turned to Clint. "Why didn't you talk to me first?"

Dean Mann coughed. "Shirley, don't talk to him just yet. From what I've been told, he did try to talk to you but you just went and steamrolled over everything as usual. I could overlook that, but there's a bigger issue – you were talking in front of your class. Introductory Psychology is generally filled with freshman, and since this is their first semester here, they're usually still in the stage that everything that their professors say is the gospel truth. You know that. I've heard from the department heads that quite a few of you end up highly frustrated at the end of the first month because of that. So can you _please_ tell me why you didn't follow any of the established guidelines?"

"I…I…" Doctor Davis stammered. "Just _look_ at him!" Her voice firmed up as she pointed at Clint. "A sling but no cast and a bruise that looks more like it came from a punch than whatever he _claims_ happened."

Clint stared at his professor incredulously. "I have _stitches_!"

"Shirley," the dean sighed, "I cannot believe that you're being like this. What's really the matter?"

"He shows up for the first day of class, feeds me some cock-and-bull story about how he'll be gone because his mother is having surgery, and then misses the next two classes. He returns, wearing a sling and with a bruise on his cheek and _obviously_ lies to my face. I know the signs, Patrick, so tell me that I'm wrong!"

"You're wrong, Doctor Davis," Clint said. "And like you said, look at me! Do you think that I'd let _anybody_ beat me up without fighting back?"

"Appearances can be deceiving." Clint stared at the psychology professor and didn't try to hide his shock at what she was saying. "_Thirty years_ of experience, Patrick, that's what I'm basing all this off of, and the fact that sometimes people think getting punched in the face and ending up going around with slings on is _okay_ because that's how they grew up."

"Shirley." The dean didn't give Clint a chance to respond. "This is what you're going to do. You are going to apologize to Clint, as well as changing that decision of yours that he has to turn everything in early. My decision was that he only had to turn things in early if he was going to miss class. He also is going to be given the opportunity to make up things that he misses whenever he's gone. Those rules were put into place even before he got his class schedule, so please don't say that they were created just to make your life difficult because his other two professors have the same rules. I'm trying to decide if that apology should be made in front of your class or in private, because Clint says that he's been getting more than a few funny looks today."

"You're just shoving everything under the table, as usual. Do you even _care_ about the students, Patrick?"

Clint watched with rising alarm as the dean's face darkened. "What I'm _trying_ to do, Shirley, is protect this school from a _lawsuit _thanks to your tendency to see _everything_ as signs that somebody is being abused and your inability to follow guidelines that are there for a reason. Tenure will not, _cannot_, protect you from that, no other schools around here will hire you if you do end up being fired from this institution, and I wish you luck returning to clinical practice. Not to mention working with the-"

Clint coughed forcefully, trying to interrupt the dean before the man could say anything more. "Um, yeah. Sorry. Something in my throat."

* * *

Attacking. That was the only word that Coulson could think of when he finally tracked down Clint that evening. The archer was in the gym, aggressively working out at a punching bag. "Did Medical clear you for this?"

"'M being good. Not using it. Much." The words were interspersed with thumps. Stopping, Clint leaned his forehead against the bag, visibly tense. "Why are people so _stupid_?"

"People are only human, Clint." Coulson eyed the younger man, trying to work out options. "And you know that people can make mistakes and screw up on a very regular basis."

"Fucking psych professor won't apologize. Dean almost spilled the beans and was asking questions that he shouldn't've, like what I actually do. Everybody was _staring_ at me like I was about to snap or go nuts or something. Only _good_ thing that came out of today was finding out that I don't have to turn everything in early." Rearing back, Clint suddenly punched the bag.

Coulson winced when he saw Clint grab at his arm with a curse and go pale. "Let me see," he ordered, reaching for Clint's hand. Grabbing the towel Clint had around his neck, Coulson wrapped it around the archer's arm. "Hold this, and let's go. Don't bother telling me that you're fine, because you're bleeding and look like you're about to pass out. How deep did the doctors say this was?"

"Deep," Clint forced out. "Clean but deep, and on the wrong side for the artery and most of the important nerves and _shit_ I think this hurts worse now than it did the first time. Bag. Aspirin in there."

"I think that Medical will be willing to give you something better than that." Slinging Clint's backpack over his shoulder, Coulson nodded at the door. "Move it, Clint, unless you want me to get Medical to send you a stretcher. Looks like you may have popped a couple stitches. Why won't the professor apologize?"

"She's a _bitch_," Clint grunted. "'N stubborn, almost as bad as you. 'Cept with her I can't steal her dessert or stuff from her office."

"So _that's_ why my stapler vanished and you don't have to steal my food Clint; there's more than enough to feed that bottomless pit that you occasionally call your stomach." Coulson shook his head. "Just go back for more. I've told you that before."

"I _do_." Coulson thought that the pain must have been receding some; Clint was breathing easier and standing up straight. "But it's easier to just take your Jello 'cause that pushes your buttons." Setting his jaw, Clint shook his head slightly. "Dean gave me the option to drop the class and find something else. I said no."

"Why, if it seems like it's going to be that hard for you?" Coulson knew Clint's answer, but wanted to hear it anyways.

"I'm not a quitter. And it's good training, right? Being able to deal with bitches like her?" The corner of Clint's mouth quirked up as he watched Coulson out of the corner of his eye.

"_Language_, Clint. I thought we dealt with that particular issue months ago," Coulson sighed. "Although I would suggest saving all of your work and having somebody else look at it as well. Talk to your advisor for that; I'd like to leave the dean out of as much as possible since you're saying that he can't keep his mouth shut. Incidentally, what did you tell him?"

"'Kay." Clint nodded. "And 'stuff. Rest is classified.' When he asked if I was carrying, I showed him my pocketknife. The small one."

"Arrows and knives; you've certainly become very firmly stuck in the dark ages with your chosen weapons." Coulson glanced over at Clint, quickly assessing how he looked. Much better, he decided as the two entered Medical. "Barton didn't use his brain again; would you please get him a nurse or a doctor?"

"Hey!" Clint objected, looking insulted. "I always use my brain! Just…not the right way all the time. And that was another problem today. _Everybody_ was staring, even my professors."

"Why is it that you're upset about people at school staring when we were getting looks all the way from the gym?" Coulson followed Clint into the exam room.

"They're staring because of _lies_." Clint hissed slightly as the doctor injected the local anesthetic and started looking at his arm. "And _ow_ that burns. People here, though, know me and are just curious about what 'Barton did this time to be getting dragged around by Coulson.' There's a _difference_. And a betting pool and tally sheet in the locker room. They don't let me participate. Take a look sometime though; they've come up with some pretty funny ideas. Might have to use a couple of them in the future and if anybody asks, I won't be near anything that may happen."

"Generally one does not bet on oneself," Coulson pointed out dryly as he sat down in a chair. "Doctor?"

"It was healing up quite nicely, but Agent Barton, what were you doing? Tore a few surface stitches right out, and don't ask about what's further down just yet." Sitting up, the doctor nodded. "Plus side, I don't think you'll need more oral antibiotics on top of what you've been given already." Bending closer to Clint's arm, he started pulling out the remaining sutures.

Coulson caught the look on Clint's face. "Clint, you're taking them, right?"

"Yes?" Clint winced at the looks he was getting. "Usually? I might have missed a couple doses. And I forgot and punched hard with that arm when I was working out just now."

"We'll discuss that later." Coulson shook his head in resignation. Obviously, the idea that Clint had actually matured sufficiently to be trusted to take care of himself had been premature.

"One or two, while regrettable, isn't a life-or-death situation and can be chalked up to accidentally forgetting. More than that, Agent Barton, and we'll have to reassess how you get the antibiotics that you're prescribed. Stay here while I go grab the things I need, and hope that you don't end up with too bad of a scar." Standing up, the doctor strode out of the room.

"See, accidental. I've _gotten_ the lectures and yeah, I might not like it, but I know _why_ I get 'em and should take them correctly." Curiously, Clint glanced down at his arm. "Guess I should've kicked and not punched." As the doctor reentered, he looked up. "So, doc, how much longer until I can use my bow?"

"Ask us in a week; you're lucky that you've got even some use of that arm right now. I still want you in a sling, so no more punching until we give you the all clear. Try to avoid the gym if at all possible, actually; that way you can just rest that arm and let it heal." Sitting down, the doctor pulled on gloves. "So, I'm just going to take a good look while I'm cleaning it all up, fix what needs fixing, and give you an extra dose of drugs."

"Still mad by the way," Clint muttered, trying to get as comfortable as possible on the exam table as the doctor went to work. "Not you, doc. Different stuff."

"Yes, well, Agent Barton, if you could see fit to show your anger such that you don't end up in here, that'd be greatly appreciated. You're not clear to use your bow, but you're still okay for handguns as long as you shoot one handed. With your uninjured arm. Now," the doctor held up a couple syringes. "Other arm, please?"

"Doctor James," Coulson leaned forward to watch as Clint made a face at the feeling of the shots and the doctor went back to work. "Do you think you would be willing to fake some information?"

"Depends on how fake, what it's being used for, and if it could affect my license." The doctor nodded. "Agent Barton, same deal with that arm as before. Keep it clean, take your antibiotics _as scheduled_, come back in five days for a follow-up. Consider yourself lucky; those torn muscles had healed up enough that they didn't reinjure themselves too badly." Leaning back, he nodded firmly. "Not too shabby, if I say so myself. Haven't had to do a fix like that in years."

"This is SHIELD, Doc," Clint quipped as he pulled his sleeve down and put his sling on. "Don't think you need to worry about the little things like your license." Glancing around, he loudly whispered, "I mean, I could be considered a _serial killer_. And they _pay_ me to do that."

"What I'm looking for," Coulson was thinking furiously and ignoring Clint. "What I think we need is just a doctor's note _saying_ that you fell at the hospital, Clint, and that it was witnessed, since that's your story."

"That sort of thing, you'd actually want a letter from a hospital's legal department, not just a note." Doctor James shook his head as he cleaned up. "Now, _next_ time you need an excuse, talk to the nurses or whoever you see _before_ trying to come up with a story to tell the civilians. Knowing how things here work, I don't doubt that there will be a next time. And Agent Barton, please remember that unless you're in the shower or asleep, that arm is staying _in_ the sling until we say otherwise. Not you, not Agent Coulson, not Director Fury, we as in Medical. Don't follow my instructions; you're risking permanent damage to the muscles."

"Okay," Clint yawned, then blinked. "What'd you stick in me again?"

"Rocephin and morphine." The doctor was flipping through Clint's chart. "Antibiotic and painkiller. Huh. Whoops. Would you like a bed here for the night?"

Clint slid off the table and headed for the door. "No. I want my own bed, and I think I've got ten minutes to get there so let's go, Coulson. Gonna," he yawned again, "Gonna need to put another couple reasons on that list including Medical not reading what they write."

* * *

Clint glanced at the top of his paper and shook his head at the note scribbled there before picking it up and heading to the front of the class. Ignoring the looks he was getting from the other students as they filed out of the room, he held up the paper. "You wanted to see me, Professor Voss?"

"Yes. Question for you, Clint." The professor plucked the paper from Clint's hand and started scanning through it. "How much writing have you done?"

"Not a lot," Clint admitted freely. "Never really had to, and it's been a while since I was in school."

"Okay. Because I'm seeing a lot of issues in this paper, so I'm going to have you rewrite it." Not looking up, the professor nodded. "Nothing _major_, but a lot of little grammatical and organizational things that are just adding up. Let me give you the name of a book that should help." He looked up and gave Clint a wry grin. "Although I do have to ask; you were incredibly critical of Holden. Why? Most people feel sympathetic for him and his situation."

"I've noticed. I just _can't_ feel sorry for the kid." Clint tugged at the strap of his sling. "I mean, yeah, he got kicked out of school, but then he made all sorts of bad decisions and it almost felt like he was just blaming others with the way that he was going on with them being 'phony.' Sure, he's what, 16? But still, if he'd actually, yanno, _owned up_ to things and asked for help, he'd've probably been happier in the end. And he wouldn't've gotten beat up, either, and also probably wouldn't have ended up in a psych ward someplace. I also blame his parents 'cause they kept on shipping him off to boarding schools and he didn't have any real role models. Even _society_ a little bit, if that was normal back then because without halfway decent people to look up to, kids just get screwed over by the system and bringing them back takes a lot of hard work and a willingness on everybody's part to _do_ that work. Although," Clint scratched at the back of his neck. "Guess that without all that, there wouldn't be a book."

"You sound like you've got personal experience with that sort of thing." Crossing his arms, the professor stared curiously at Clint. "Was there actually some truth to that rumor from Doctor Davis, then?"

"No!" Clint shook his head furiously. "And can I just say that I _hate_ that rumor? But yeah, I wasn't the best kid, got in a few fights here and there. Life was tough but I didn't go around _blaming_ other people for my problems. Much."

"Well, Clint," Professor Voss quickly wrote a title down and handed Clint's paper back. "You've got more than a few good points in this paper and I also like your reasoning; it appears that you really thought about this. Next time, don't be afraid to speak up in class; sometimes the best discussions come from opposing viewpoints, as long as it doesn't get personal. Also for future reference, if you want me to take a look at your rough draft I'm always open to that sort of thing. And if you can't make my listed office hours, let me know and we can see if we can work something out. And fights, huh?" He smiled and gave Clint a careful look. "You look like you know your way around a boxing ring, that's for sure."

"I like archery, actually." Clint glanced down at his sling, heading for his desk. "Well, if I can draw my bow. When do you want this?"

"Oh…let's make it a week for the rewrite, unless you get it finished sooner. That sound good?"

"Yeah." Clint finished putting his things away and started for the door. "And I'll see if my dad can help me out, too; I wanted to try writing this one without going to him every five minutes. He's been a little busy recently."


	32. Chapter 32

Clint's not having much fun. Many thanks to Hawk and Zara at TBB.

* * *

"So," Clint leaned back in his chair as the professor wandered around the room. "I've _finally_ gotten everybody's papers read, and I'm just a _little_ upset by the end result. We very clearly discussed just what went into a critical essay, and I've never had any problems in the past with how my assignments have been worded, so would somebody please explain to me just what happened?" Clint glanced around and didn't see anybody move. Feeling one corner of his mouth turn up in amusement, he mentally shook his head at just how people could resemble statues so clearly. "Mister Barton?"

"Wouldn't know, sir." Clint didn't change his expression. He shifted slightly in his seat at the looks he was getting and tried not to show his discomfort as the movement made the staples in his arm rub uncomfortably against his sleeve. He couldn't wait to get back to the Helicarrier and into Medical; he didn't think that he was above begging them to at least let him out of the sling a _little_. Even just to run on the treadmill for half an hour; not being able to do anything but sit around yesterday had resulted in escalating threats from Coulson. Clint was still wondering if he really was going to end up in Alaska or Antarctica for every holiday for the next decade.

"Of course you wouldn't. Nobody _ever_ knows, is that right Miss Shaw?" Professor Voss turned to another student who'd giggled slightly at Clint's drawl. "So, to reiterate, a critical essay is one in which you _critique, analyze, _or _evaluate_ something. I don't need to see 23 summaries of the book; I've been teaching this course for a decade now and believe me, I _know_ what the books you read are about. So I want you _all_ to rewrite them and get them back to me by Monday, just put them under my office door. If you aren't on campus, let me know. Now," he raised his voice over the groans, "Back to Dante. I hope you did the assigned reading for today."

Clint slowly wandered up at the end of class. "Hey, question. You told me that I had a week for my essay, do I still have that week? I'm only here Tuesdays through Fridays."

"Oh yeah, I did tell you that…you know what, keep that deadline, it's close enough to everybody else. Like I said, your issues are with the writing side, not the critical analysis side. How's that arm?"

"Itching." Clint shrugged. "Had to get a few stitches, staples, whatever, which is why I'm wearing a sling. But thanks, sir."

"Also," the professor was busy packing up his things. "Thanks for participating today. You've obviously done some extra research on the book."

"Background, sir," Clint said dryly. "Gotta know the background, and I was bored last night." Walking back to his desk, he picked up his backpack and headed for the door. "If you don't know the background, you really don't know anything."

Clint didn't pay much attention to the lecture during his math class. He'd had a thought and wanted to work through it while he had a chance; it was one of those "what-if's" that he'd had every once in a while since arriving at SHIELD. This time, he was puzzling over the question of what if his early life had been different – would he still be in the same position as he was now? Probably not, he mused. He'd have probably never left Waverly if his dad hadn't been an alcoholic and driving drunk. Maybe if the town had been a little more accepting of the orphanage, too, his life would've been different. But Barney…Barney had wanted out, even more than Clint did, so maybe not. Maybe he still would've been sneaking away one day with a plastic bag holding a change of clothes with the goal of making it to Carson's Circus of Traveling Wonders before the orphanage workers realized that the Barton boys had vanished _again_. Catching a sharp look from the professor as he shook his head slightly, Clint sat up straight and tried to pay attention.

Pausing before entering his Psych classroom, Clint firmly shook his head. "Gotta focus for this one, Barton," he muttered to himself. "Remember your mission; she may be a bitch, but you can deal with her. You have to." Setting his jaw, Clint strode into the classroom and sat down. Why he'd thought that taking a class on psychiatry would be fun, he wasn't sure any more. Part of him blamed Beeks; the SHIELD psychiatrist had somehow ended up on Clint's short list of people that could be trusted and he had found his sessions with the man fascinating. Not that he was going to make it _easy_ for the shrink – Clint had decided that he had a reputation as a pain in the ass to uphold. At least a little. For certain departments. With a low chuckle to himself, he finished digging his things out of his backpack.

"Mister Barton." Clint warily looked up at the professor. "I neglected to ask. How is your mother?" She dropped some papers on his desk. "And some of the work that you turned in."

"She's doing fine, thanks," Clint carefully said. "Won't leave the house, but that's nothing new." He recognized the curious glint that entered Doctor Davis' eyes and quickly added, "Cancer, Doctor Davis. She's got cancer, and that's all that she wants me to tell people."

"I…see," was the only response. Clint was promptly ignored for the rest of the class; fine with him. The looks in general were bad enough, and he had another few hours stuck on campus until the jet was scheduled to pick him up. He still hadn't found a good hiding place on campus yet.

* * *

Clint pulled out one of his books before he sprawled on the deck of the Quinjet. Ignoring the pilots as he propped his feet up on a seat, he tried to figure out just what exactly Dante was talking about – he may not have liked the book and a few of the themes may have hit a little too close to home, but _Catcher in the Rye_ had been so much easier to understand. Involved in reading, he only half noticed the jet landing and a chattering group climbing on board. A foot hitting his side had him lowering the book with a glare.

"_Damn_, Barton. Getting all smart on us?" A grinning Radar looked down at him.

"Smarter'n you, at least." Clint dropped his feet and stood up, easily balancing against the jet's movement. "What are you doing here?" He really didn't want to deal with this right now…

"Unlike some people who shouldn't be let out without a leash, we actually _work_ for a living. None of this fancy book shit." Reaching out, Radar grabbed the book. "I mean, _poetry_? Getting girly, Barton."

"Yeah?" Clint retorted. "Then you can tell me what the hell it all means." With a snort, he reclaimed his book and tossed it on a seat. "And I have been working. You think I'm wearing this thing for _fun?_"

"Radar, introductions?" One of the other men peered over Radar's shoulder at Clint.

"Clint Barton, professional circus freak." Radar pointed at Clint. "Meet my new team. You know Max, team lead is Tim, these two are Tom and Daniel. Barton does mostly solo ops, uses a bow and arrow, of all things. I told you about him when we got our latest set of orders. What'd you do, fall off a roof?"

"Stabbed because my target's bodyguards were within shouting distance. They were a little pissed that I took her out behind her own club." Clint shook his head, feeling slightly relieved that he was actually able to tell _somebody_ the truth when they asked. It was, so far, the one highlight in an otherwise bad day. He wished that he was sharing the flight with supplies and the mail, not more people; he'd been around too many people for too many days in a row already and just couldn't find the energy anymore.

"_You_ took that bitch out? Dammit, I was hoping…" Radar's team leader shook his head. "I'd been pulling to get in on that one for the past six months; she'd really screwed over a hell of a lot of things on the west coast. And _alone_?"

Clint shrugged. "Coulson was down the street."

The man whistled. "Solo indeed, Radar." Moving to stand in front of Clint, he held out his hand. "Tim Hortense. Interested in joining the team?"

Shaking his head, Clint grabbed the outstretched hand. He wasn't prepared for the sudden tug or the attempted throw but allowed himself to stumble forward. Mentally apologizing to the doctors, Clint broke the grip on his hand and spun around, reaching for his pocketknife with his injured arm and pinning the taller man to the bulkhead. "_Don't_ fuck with me." He held up his knife. "Slit two throats with this, should I show you how sharp I keep it?" Taking a step back as he casually tossed the knife from one hand to the other, Clint resettled his arm in the sling. "And if I tore anything, _again_, I'm telling Medical it was because of an idiot."

Radar moved to stand between the two men. "Hey, cool it. Tim, I warned you; you want to meet the best damn shooter I've ever met, and I've met a few, you don't pull anything like that. He and I aren't exactly friends, but I trust him to have my back. You trust me, you trust the people I trust. Barton, please don't hurt my team leader? Max 'n I have just finished getting these three broken in since Paul ditched us."

"Was wondering what happened to him," Clint sat down and continued to glare at the newcomers. "But I've had a real shitty few days and the only way I'll work with a team is if I absolutely have to. Gotten burned damn near every time I've worked with one, and can pull it all off better on my own. Hell, ask Coulson about what happened last month. So, Radar, lemme just say this. They pull anything like that again outside of a scheduled session in the gym, you'll be looking for another team." Abruptly standing up and walking to the cockpit, Clint split his attention between the instruments and the view outside. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, sounds like it wasn't your fault. Hey, swap with Dave; we're about ten minutes out. Talk me through landing procedures and you can deal with the radio." Clint just nodded. "And as soon as you're out of that sling, the hope was to finish getting you signed off on these things."

Awkwardly shoving the headset on with a nod at the co-pilot, Clint carefully slid into the vacated seat. "Thanks. First step is to make sure we're actually where we think we are and the same with the Helicarrier. Which is at…our twelve o'clock, according to the computers. Not in visual range just yet, but it's kinda cloudy. Unknown altitude relative to ours, but knowing Fury and his rules, it'll either be at this level or slightly lower, if not down in the water."

"Good." The pilot nodded. "Call it in."

Taking a breath, Clint tried to remember the correct call signs. "Carrier flight, Quinjet seven-niner-one-echo-lima-alpha."

* * *

After they had landed, Clint waited until everybody had left before climbing out of the co-pilot's seat and picking up his things. He headed to the range with a brief detour by his room; he felt tense and figured the best way to deal with that would be to do as much as Medical said he could do and go shooting. Grabbing his Walkman, Clint nodded to himself. Work some more on learning Russian, and maybe see if the armory had options other than a handgun.

He'd been there for maybe half an hour when somebody walked up to stand behind him. Clint finished off the clip and hit the button to bring his target in as he set his gun down and turned around.

"So yeah, Tim's an idiot, but he's _my_ idiot." Radar didn't look upset and Clint relaxed slightly as he turned off the Walkman. "But now he's getting reamed out by Santos and I'd kinda like to know why."

"Sorry, that I don't." Clint shrugged. "Got back, came here. Haven't spoken to anybody."

"And I'd like to know why as well." Clint sighed. Coulson. Of course.

"It's nothing, sir. I can deal with it." Clint turned back to the firing line with the intention of shredding another target or three. It was hard to work the semi-automatic with his arm still in the sling, but he'd figured it out. The fact that it was his dominant arm that had been injured added a level of complexity to everything that Clint found worked well as an extra distraction. When a hand reached around and grabbed the gun, Clint spun around with a scowl. "I _said_ it's nothing. Would you two just leave me the hell alone so I can finish dealing with the fact that I've had a really crappy week?" He watched Radar shrug and walk off, then turned to glare at Coulson. "_What_?"

"Pilots reported that you may have overreacted a bit." Coulson's voice was level. "Want to tell me why?" He efficiently unloaded the gun and picked up the rest of the magazines spread across the table, tossing the unused targets into their bin on the floor. "Well?" The annoyance Clint could hear starting to break through had him picking up his used targets and heading for the armory. "The armory workers will take care of this for you today. Obviously you're pissed off about something, I don't completely know what, and I'm trying to find a reason as to why I shouldn't be mad at the way you're acting. So far, I'm failing."

Clint eyed Coulson. "Radar's new team leader decided that he wanted to fucking _test_ me for some stupid reason. I reacted. Radar told him off. I ended up in the co-pilot's seat for the rest of the flight. I came here because I can't go to the gym, I can't use my bow, and I spent all damn day using my brain and I still haven't figured anything out. Happy?"

"Marginally." Coulson started heading down the hallway. "I do want you to go talk to Medical about things that you can do and since you didn't follow the instructions to not use that arm again, so move it. I'm not up to a repeat of last night."

Clint mutely followed, glaring at Coulson's back the entire time. "I was going to talk to them tomorrow," he muttered as he slumped into the chair in the exam room. "Just…not tonight. I'm too upset right now. And my arm doesn't hurt, so stop _worrying_." A knock on the door had him shifting his glare from Coulson to the person entering.

"So what'd you do this time, Clint?" Meg raised one eyebrow as she glanced between the two men. Her eyes widened and she shifted back slightly as Clint's glare intensified.

"Why is it that _I'm_ always the one doing something?" Clint snarled, finally reaching his breaking point. "'Oh, Barton managed to fuck up again.' 'Agent Barton, don't you know that we tell you these things for a _reason_?' I don't _ask_ to get hurt, you think I _like_ it? Or getting dragged in _here_ because Coulson is a fucking paranoid mother _hen _who doesn't _listen_ when I say that I'm fine?"

"Agent Coulson, it sounds like this one is your fault," Meg shook her head. "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions like that, Clint."

"You'd think I'd be used to it by now." Clint sullenly stared at the corner of the room. "Medical, Psych, people at school…hell, _everybody_."

"Ah." Meg had a thoughtful look on her face. "Up on the table, young man." As Clint slowly obeyed, she focused on Coulson. "_You_ can go out and ask somebody for a meal tray."

Clint jumped slightly as he felt the nurse climb up onto the table next to him. "You're a weird nurse, Meg," he muttered.

"I prefer the term unconventional, and nursing is about more than just healing the body and can I say I hate the fact that these things have to be so high off the ground? I'm too old to be doing these sorts of gymnastics." The nurse breathed out heavily as she finally settled next to Clint. "Hug time. Don't expect this sort of service anyplace but here." Clint tensed slightly as she wrapped one arm around his shoulders. "So, want to make everything clear for me as to why you're so upset? Nothing medical today, this is pure nursing and I'm not allowed to give out medications without permission from the doctors."

"Not even Tylenol?" Clint shifted uncomfortably as the arm tightened.

"Nope. I'll show you your chart sometime and you can see what the doctors have written out for what we can give you without asking them. So, why'd Agent Coulson drag you in here tonight?"

"Dunno." Against his will, Clint felt himself relax slightly and leaned against the nurse. "Was going to come by tomorrow and ask what I can do with this arm besides shoot one-handed and sit around. May've used it earlier today, but I just pulled my knife out of my pocket. That was it." He huffed slightly. "I _know_ why I shouldn't be using it. Got the lecture twice." Clint didn't understand the impulse that led him to rest his head against Meg's shoulder, but he took the plunge and did it anyways.

"What happened to put you in a sling?" Meg glanced at Coulson as he reentered the room with a curious glance at the pair sitting on the exam table. "Just put that down on the counter. No," she corrected. "Next to me, and go wait outside and think about just why this visit could have and _should_ have waited until tomorrow. Clint?"

"Knife. Stitches. Have another two or three days until the doctor said I can even think about getting rid of the sling when I managed to hurt it again a couple days ago." Clint closed his eyes. He was startled at how good the contact was making him feel and hummed slightly with pleasure as Meg's hand started stroking his head. He didn't mean to, but it just slipped out. "'M just _tired_ of it all."

Her only response was to hand him a cup, complete with straw. "Drink up. Did you eat lunch today?"

"No," Clint muttered. "I didn't have any extra cash on me. One meal isn't important enough to pull out my 'oh shit' twenty and I _thought_ I was used to not eating regularly. Didn't really get breakfast either because I was running late."

"Operatives. They're all the same. Can talk about a dozen different ways to kill a man, but can't remember to stick five bucks in their pocket for some fast food." Clint laughed slightly at the exasperated tone. "So why else are you upset? Being stuck in a sling for a week can't be that bad."

Clint snorted and took a drink of what turned out to be juice. As Meg handed him food, he obediently ate and answered her questions. The food helped and the hug and willing listener drew him to say more than he thought he would've; it was like there was something pulling everything out. Maybe there was a purpose to this physical contact thing, he thought, because unlike Thanksgiving it didn't feel intrusive. It was supportive and comforting, not to mention completely different from whenever he talked to Coulson or Beeks. "And, yeah," he finally finished. "It's just been a long week and I've probably been thinking of those what-ifs too much."

"So, learning moments. Skip eating, you're going to suffer the consequences. Save the meal bars for missions, they're so foul that it's probably against the Geneva Convention to give them to prisoners. Ask the mess hall for a bagged lunch; they do that sort of thing for people who can't get there. Eat a real breakfast. You're very obviously still putting on needed muscle and weight, and that requires real, healthy food and regular meals. Whatever sort of eating habits you had before you came here, Clint, you're not going to be able to go back to them so I would suggest not trying."

Shifting slightly and wrapping Clint in another hug, she continued, "I'm not the person to ask about all those school problems; I barely graduated and at my last reunion I found out that they're _still_ talking about me. I had several rather intense disagreements with my teachers." Clint chuckled lightly as she whispered, "I was _right_. Dratted confidentiality agreements means that I can't go and rub it in their faces, but maybe one day. Same with those deep thoughts; you're just going to have to work those out on your own. But I've found that focusing too much on what might have been tends to pull people too far away from reality and causes more harm than good." Lightly nudging Clint upright, Meg slid off the table. "And _that_, young man, is SHIELD nursing at its finest. How does your arm feel right now?"

"Meh," Clint shrugged. "Itches, but not too bad. Just want out of this sling."

"Plans for the weekend?"

"Hiding in my room as much as I can." Clint nodded firmly. "There're just too many _people_ right now."

"And my final lesson for you tonight. Stop trying to live up to the expectations of other people. If you'll excuse my crudeness, the hell what they think. They're wrong and you're right, even if you can't say anything. I've heard the rumors about you here and I _know_ that you're surpassing everybody's expectations but your own, so I wouldn't worry about ending up on the street suddenly. Also, I don't know how social you try to be, but I'm guessing that deep down you're not a fan, so don't even try if you don't want to. It's only been a couple weeks at school, you don't have to keep up any charades about being a fun-loving extrovert." Folding her arms over her chest, Meg nodded. "So, feeling better? I charge extra to tuck grown men into bed."

"Thought you said this was nursing." Clint felt a smile forcing its way out. "Not getting added onto my list of people who have to _mother_ me."

"Oh but it's fun, and believe it or not, there are some crossovers. At least, that's what I've heard." Reaching out and lightly lifting Clint's chin she continued, "Maybe the next time you're here overnight I really will tuck you in." As he stared at her, horrified, she shook her head with a sly smile. "Or I'll leave that to somebody you've got a little more faith in, perhaps? I remember your last stay with us." When Clint just continued to stare at her, feeling warring expressions on his face, Meg's smile grew even more. "Ahhh, I see. You've _got_ your role model, parental figure, or whatever and don't want any more. Well, young man, tough cookies. SHIELD is one big happy family, especially those of us who _only_ work for SHIELD, and if some of us want to dole out the maternal feelings that we've never gotten to give to children of our own, you're going to have to sit and take it. I promise to not go over the top in public, and Darla and Tia are the only others you'll really have to watch out for. Besides, it's good life experience."

"Experience. Right."

Meg beckoned to Clint and watched as he jumped off the table. Reaching up, she pulled the archer's head lower and kissed his forehead, laughing at the shocked look on Clint's face. "Like I said, we're not normal here and I really am old enough to be your mother. Now go, young man, mentally recharge however you like to, and come back Sunday evening to talk to the doctor about your arm; I'll leave a note so they'll be expecting you. Something that deep, it might take a little longer than usual to heal up, but I don't doubt that you'll be good for some light usage by the end of the weekend. It won't be up to what you're probably used to doing, but you can certainly run and do some light stretching. Working out will help your mood, too, and the fact that you probably aren't sleeping very well right now."

"Thanks, I think." Clint paused by the door. Hesitantly, he added, "Can I, yanno, maybe come talk to you again sometime?"

"Of course." Meg was busy tidying up the room. "Although you might want to also use the other resources available."

"Yeah. And I kinda do sometimes," Clint nodded. "But you're _different_. And, um, I actually kinda really liked that hug?" He could see the nurse thinking. "If you don't want me to that's okay, too."

"No," Meg sounded distracted. "I'm just busy feeling all sorts of regrets for the life you've lived and the things that you've missed out on. It's not feeling sorry for you, by the way. Now get going; Agent Coulson is probably waiting rather impatiently, you _look_ infinitely better, and I need to go write and shred a few angry letters."

Coulson was leaning against the wall and Clint simply glanced at him before heading for the door. "Friday, sir. Movie? I'll even let you choose."

"Now that you're calmer, will you explain what happened and why?" Coulson followed Clint into the hall. "And tell me if it will happen again?"

"Probably will." Clint glanced over at the older man. "And yeah, I overreacted on the flight back when Radar's new team lead tried to toss me. Which was a stupid thing to do, if only because those jets are pretty small and there were four other people standing right there. I don't get it because I _said_ that I was hurt and I don't think that a bright blue sling is easy to hide when I'm dressed like this. Not to mention, I was already feeling really stressed out. I don't think I can do this school thing, sir; it's just too different and I'm really not liking it."

"I seem to recall you telling me that you didn't think you could do things before because it was 'too different' and you were uncomfortable. Unfortunately, timing of that mission meant that the first couple weeks were affected, and your one professor isn't helping matters all that much." Coulson didn't look at Clint. "However, give it a little bit and I am sure that, like here, you'll start feeling better. Did you write down your cover story?"

"Some of it." Clint started heading to the mess hall. "Sorry, still hungry. Meals in Medical are kinda small."

"That's not a problem. Tomorrow we can also work on your cover story some more and see what parts are the most difficult for you and areas that haven't been covered which may make things a little easier. Or Monday, if that's easier for you." Clint relaxed even more when he couldn't hear anything negative in Coulson's voice. "Feed my curiosity. What did you talk about?"

"Stuff." Clint shrugged. "She said that most operatives don't remember to eat sometimes and that the mess hall'll give you a bag lunch if you ask. Stop trying to be what other people expect me to be and that I'm not about to get kicked out. Go back for my recheck Sunday evening. Some other stuff." He could almost see the mental notes being made by Coulson and briefly wondered if there was a list written down with instructions on how to best handle him.

"Any risks of you being fired vanished when you got your GED." Coulson nodded. "Now it's just working on building up your weak points and hoping that you don't get killed." He paused. "But I'm not about to start cuddling you the way the nurse was."

Clint quickly shook his head. "Ew. No. That'd be too weird." He made a face. "But Meg said I didn't have a choice about if she was going to do all that. She threatened to _tuck me in_ the next time I was stuck in Medical overnight."

"Women," Coulson shrugged. "Don't bother trying to understand them. You'll never succeed."


	33. Chapter 33

Enjoy. Thanks to the folks who are beta reading this.

* * *

Monday morning, Clint woke up feeling strangely optimistic about the upcoming week. His weekend had been spent just as he'd wanted – mostly alone, in his room, with only a few trips to get food, try to bug Coulson, or get the staples removed from his arm. Lightly rubbing his face, he entered the mess hall.

Mindful of the advice he'd been given, Clint loaded up a tray and found a corner to sit in. As he slowly ate, he scanned the rest of the room. The sight of a black leather trench coat by the coffee station made him blink in surprise and he watched as Fury slowly worked his way around the room, stopping by various tables and talking with different people.

"I was once told that to be a truly effective leader, one must be willing to interact with one's subordinates as something other than a superior at times." Clint just carefully watched as the SHIELD Director sat down and slid a mug across the table. "The man that said that then went and did something stupidly heroic. The world is a sadder place without him."

Clint glanced into the mug and took a sip. "Yeah?" It took a little work, but he was able to hide his disgust at the taste of the coffee. He normally added sugar.

"Ask Agent Coulson about his childish obsession. And now, Agent Barton," Fury's voice changed back to what Clint was familiar with, "I have an assignment for you. Two, actually. The first one will be coming through Agent Coulson, and it will involve working with a team. You will work with the team, and learn to work in groups. The second. I want to see proof that you're not only passing your courses, but that you are doing _well_ in them. Dean's List, every semester. Understand?"

"Yessir." Clint was still trying to figure out what was going on as Fury stood up and walked off. Glancing down at the table, he grabbed at the packets of sugar that Fury had left in a small pile and dumped them all in before standing up and heading for the door. Only having to go to school four days a week was nice, and Clint decided that today was a good day to just work on everything for school, especially redoing that Psych homework. The professor hadn't said that he could, but Clint was firmly of the opinion that she _owed_ him.

* * *

A knock on his door that evening had him looking up from the paper he was trying to rewrite. "It's open!" He called out, glancing over as Coulson walked in. "What's the Dean's List? Fury says he wants proof that I'm on it."

"Of course he does." Coulson shook his head. "Get good grades and you won't have to worry." He tossed a folder on the desk. "New assignment for you." A pager was unceremoniously dropped on top of the file. "Nobody's quite sure of timing outside of sometime in the next month, so keep this on you and we'll pull you out of class if needed. On that note, how do you think this week is going to go?"

"It'll probably suck. As usual." Clint shrugged. "Part of me is about to tell you and Fury to go for a swim for making me do this." Reaching out and picking up the pager, he lightly rolled it in his hands. "Although Voss had stopped staring at me suspiciously and moved onto curious by last Friday. Think the fact that I actually say some good stuff in class helped. And hey," he turned to face Coulson. "Have to rewrite a paper because he said my writing's no good. Would you look at it for me, sir?"

"What part of the writing did he have issues with?" Coulson leaned against the side of the desk. "Although I can probably guess some of it. Grammar?"

"Yeah. And organization. He said he liked my analysis of the book. He also suggested a book that I could read, but they didn't have it at the school bookstore. Ordered it, but they said it'd take a couple weeks." Clint stared at the file folder. "Is this also why Fury said I had to work with a team?"

"You tell me. I also want you to think about how you'd work everything out if you were leading the assault team, if you were going in on your own, and if you were part of a team but not the leader." Coulson reached over and picked up the paper Clint had indicated. He started scanning it as he pulled a pen out of his pocket. "I see what your professor means. You're very stream of consciousness in your writing; one of the reasons I keep on sending your mission reports back. I'll put out a request for suggestions on what you can do." He caught Clint's wary glance. "I'll call Delores Smith. Better?"

"Better." Clint nodded. Picking up the mission briefing, he moved to the bed and let Coulson sit down at the desk. "A.I.M.? Aren't they like HYDRA?"

"Advanced Idea Mechanics, and they were actually part of HYDRA before splitting off." Coulson was busy writing on Clint's paper. Clint glanced over and winced when he saw all the marks – that was his second attempt. "Mostly a group of scientists, they like to create all sorts of things. Robots, weapons, and I think that they've started to really move into the world of biologicals recently. Needless to say, discovering that they've moved into an abandoned military post in the Balkans isn't good news."

Clint frowned. "Isn't that where there's all that fighting going on right now?" He went back to reading. "Yeah, it's still in the news. And guess this is why Fury also said that I need to learn to work with groups."

"Actually, it's because you're going to be asked to lead them one day. I can understand that you haven't had the best experiences so far, but not all missions are like that. So what are your first impressions of that one?"

"Meh," Clint shrugged. Sprawling out on his bed, he tossed the file on the floor. "Go in, find research, leave. Plant a few explosives. Avoid the geeks."

"That attitude, Clint, will cause problems." Coulson turned in the chair to look at the archer. "These geeks aren't afraid to fight back, and they have security that can rival SHIELD's. Never underestimate what a target can and will do. Understand?"

Clint blinked at the severe stare and tone of Coulson's voice. "Yeah. Understood. Not all geeks live in the lab; some of them actually know how to fight."

"And?" Coulson turned back around.

"And," Clint carefully thought through what Coulson had said. "Um. I underestimate things? No. If I go in thinking something'll be easy, I run the risk of screwing up?"

"Think about it this way. Those fights in Juvie. Which ones had the worse outcomes for whoever you were fighting; the ones that you started or the ones that you didn't start and ended up backed into a corner?"

"I never started any-" Clint sat up, but was interrupted by Coulson's warning cough. He flopped back down. "Okay, fine. They came after me, they always lost. Either because I ended up putting them in the hospital or the guards were watching. Did you read _everything_?"

"Yes. You had enough of a background that it took me a few weeks of very late nights." Coulson shook his head. "I won't lie, I fought plenty against this assignment at first; I was quite happy without being responsible for housebreaking a circus act." Glancing over at Clint, he added, "I'm not upset anymore. I wasn't upset after about a couple weeks of knowing you, because you were a good kid and a good challenge. Incidentally, all your previous records have been wiped clean, if you were even curious. Nobody'll know about your checkered past unless you tell them."

"Don't know if I should be offended by that or not." Clint idly flipped through his copy of _The Inferno_. "Question."

"If it's about what you're reading, I don't know."

"Can I change my school cover a little? I wanna be able to tell people that I got a GED instead of trying to remember stuff about going to a school that I've never heard of." Clint didn't look at Coulson. "Hard enough to remember the story that I've actually got living parents and a home that isn't a flying boat. And that I'm from Kansas."

Coulson put down his pen with a sigh. "Has anybody asked?"

"No, but I just have a feeling that somebody _will_. And it also gives a reason why some of my skills aren't at the same level as everybody else because I don't like writing, I suck at it, and I've got a lot of it to do. My head hurts just thinking about it." Clint sat up and swung around to sit on the side of the bed. He held his book up. "And you've never read this? Was thinking about how what circle of Hell people are sent to and why. I mean, I kill people for _money_, I lie, I've stolen, and I'm not exactly meeting the definition of pious that's in here. That's four completely different ones, and I just _know_ that we're going to have to write or say something about which circle we think we'd end up in."

"Clint," Coulson shook his head. "If you're really concerned, there are religious services on Saturdays and Sundays. And lie; it isn't too hard for you. _I_ can only tell when you're lying these days because I've spent so much time around you, although I'm starting to wonder at times. Telling people that you think you'd go to whichever one is for cold-blooded killers wouldn't help your school situation much."

"Of course I'd lie, but I'd rather think about that sort of thing than what if my parents hadn't died when they did. And I don't think I'm completely a cold-blooded killer, not really." Clint leaned forward. "I mean, I'm told to go do something and I do it. It's not like I get _pleasure_ out of it all."

"You are paid to go and shoot, stab, or poison people. Granted, these people are all anything _but_ innocent, but yes, Clint, you've been trained to be a very good assassin once you get a little more experience. And don't tell me you didn't get at least a little satisfaction from taking out that one guy."

"That…that was a lot of happiness, true. Until you lied to me." Clint looked thoughtful. "Just don't tell me to go kill people who don't need it?"

"I have yet to see things like that happening here." Coulson held out Clint's essay. "Here. I made some suggestions, and I'll try calling Delores when I get a chance this week."

Clint glanced at it. "Thanks. I think. And these aren't 'some' suggestions. I have to rewrite the entire thing _again_ with what you've said to do."

"Good training." Coulson ignored the way Clint mouthed the words as well. "And if you can come up with a way to integrate what you've got with what you want for your cover story, it should work. I'm not completely sure that I like the idea of spreading some of that around, but it's your story."

* * *

"Barton." Clint didn't look up as he felt several people sitting down around him as he was finishing his breakfast. "Radar won't talk to me unless I apologize. For what, I don't know, but he needs to talk to me for this mission that you're coming on."

"You tried to toss me around in the back of a Quinjet. I was injured and wearing a sling. You're lucky that I didn't do more, but I was being good. Didn't you listen to a word Radar said?" Clint glanced around, seeing that he was blocked in. He didn't like it.

"I don't even listen to my mother these days, Barton. I heard him say that you were the best shooter SHIELD had to offer and didn't give up, that's good enough for me. I'd also heard rumors about you having some pretty freaky skills, and I wanted to see that for myself."

Clint didn't immediately know how to respond to that. "You're an ass, then. How'd you end up leading a team?" He suspected it was the wrong thing when he felt the tension increase. "You know what? Who cares." He stood up, intending on walking off. "I have to go. If I see Radar, I'll tell him that you apologized and promised to never, _ever_ do shit like that again." He leaned forward over the table. "'Cause I'm feeling _nice_ right now. You want to talk later, fine, because I just know that Coulson's going to make me work with people no matter what I say, but for right now I've got 3 hours of classes from hell to go through and a flight to catch."

"1900 hours. Here. We need to do some mission planning."

"You really fucked up; better hope that the bosses don't find out just how badly. I don't want to be handed the crap assignments again because of you, Tim." Clint couldn't tell who'd spoken as he headed for the door.

Glancing at his watch, Clint decided that he could take the extra few minutes to stop by Medical and ask his question. He didn't care what Coulson thought about being a little more truthful about that whole GED thing; if it made things easier at school, Clint was all for it. "Hey," he called out when he spotted a nurse. Darla, he thought. "Question? And you're Darla, right?"

"I am," the nurse nodded. "What'd you need, Clint?"

"So I'm using that cancer idea that you guys came up with for my cover story and a few other things are causing problems now. Is there a way that the whole sick mom deal could make somebody drop out of school and get a GED?"

Darla nodded with a laugh. "Easily. Cancer treatments are expensive, and insurance doesn't always cover everything. You needed to work to help your family out with some extra income to help keep food on the table, pay the bills, that sort of thing. Good?"

"Perfect," Clint grinned. "Coulson can't fight that one, and I think people will go easier on me if they know. Thanks."

"Clint," Darla suddenly looked serious. "Meg talked to me about the other day. You know you can also come and find me, right?"

Clint rubbed at the back of his neck. "Meg didn't say _that_. She said that I didn't have a choice. Although," he frowned, trying to remember all of the conversation, "I may have asked if I could talk to her again."

"Put me on that list, too," Darla ordered with a firm nod. "Since if she's not here, then I usually am. And it'd be nice if you didn't fight us since we _want_ to help." Clint couldn't duck out of the way in time as she reached out and grabbed his chin, looking him straight in the face. "Nobody has to know if you don't want, but admit it, it felt good, right?"

Clint didn't meet her eyes, but also didn't try to move away. "I need to go."

"Mmhmm."

"It's just, it's just _weird_," Clint muttered as the nurse released his chin. "And yeah, it was actually kinda nice with Meg. I didn't have to hide anything and she didn't make me answer anything that I didn't want to and I didn't feel like I'd get in trouble or even judged for what I said. And she's _nice_, you know? Kinda pushy, but nice."

"Uh-huh. She is. Should try being her roommate," the nurse nodded. "Do you have five minutes? Never mind, you're taking five minutes. Sit down." She headed for some chairs along the wall. "Who judges you?"

Clint didn't sit down, shifting from one foot to the other. "People. Look, I really do gotta go." He started to turn, only to pause when the nurse grabbed his sleeve.

"SHIELD people, school people, or other people?" Darla's voice was soft and Clint felt compelled to sit down, skip going anywhere, and talk with her. "I won't tell."

Clint forced back the words that were about to come spilling out. "Just…_people_. Can I go now? I'm going to be late."

Darla just stared at him for what felt like an eternity. "I want you to think about this today, then. Why don't you want to let people in that just want to help?" Letting Clint go, she watched as he ran out the door, almost colliding with somebody. "Meg was right. Too easy, that one," she said to herself with a shake of her head and a low chuckle.

"Barton?" The voice had Darla looking up. "So you and Meg? Not surprised, now that I know you nurses and your specialties better. Let's grab her, if she's here, and have a chat." Jim Beeks jerked his head toward his office door. "Think he needs that sort of help? He was looking pretty thoughtful just now and it was clear that he wasn't watching where he was going. Never thought that I'd have an operative almost run me down."

"Very much yes. Should've heard him the other day." Meg's voice had the two glancing over. "And the sheer amount of 'mother me' vibes he can give off is almost overwhelming."

"Interesting. I wouldn't know that, unfortunately. Bit of a gender disconnect there." The psychiatrist quirked an eyebrow at the nurses as he led them into his office. "I was hoping that his established system here worked – I had thought that he was just the usual introvert with trust issues. If he was talking to you voluntarily, he may have told you more in one meeting than he has told me in almost a year."

"Point," Meg nodded. "So?"

"So the three of us and…" Beeks leaned back in his chair, tapping one finger against his knee. "Huh. Who else?"

"Doctor James. Doctor Adams would also be a good one, but Mark's _here_ and Tom likes to wander. Darla," Meg glanced at the other nurse. "Any luck just now?"

The nurse sighed and ran a hand over her head. "Damned if I know. Put a flea in his ear, that's for sure; now the only question is if he'll bite. Sounds like he's feeling judged by a lot of people, though. Doctor Beeks, are we going to be telling Agent Coulson about this?"

"No. Nobody needs to know unless it's absolutely necessary. Fury'll probably figure it out, but he keeps quiet about things and knowing him, he'll probably pull something that nobody thought about and will be about ten times more effective than this, not to mention faster." Beeks rolled his eyes. "Meg, you had a breakthrough?"

"Small one; he asked to come talk to me more." The nurse leaned forward. "Friday evening, Agent Coulson overreacted and dragged Clint in. Clint got pretty upset – couldn't blame him, it couldn't even be called trivial, the reason was _that_ minor. He's pretty stressed out; I think he'd just gotten settled in here once and for all and it sounds like he's taking to his job like a duck takes to water." She shuddered slightly. "The look he gave me…makes me very glad that we're on the same side. But then he was tossed into a brand new environment a few weeks ago that he probably isn't sure how to classify with people there that are giving him problems. College," she added at the curious look. "He's having trouble with a psychology professor."

Beeks looked surprised. "He's taking a psych class? Huh. That's…interesting. Knew that he was going to school. Did you get a name? I might be able to look them up and feed you some information for him. Not making any promises, mind you."

Meg pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket with a smirk. "Knock yourself out, since it sounds like she's a real piece of work. Couple other things, because I have to go do morning rounds and Darla probably wants to give report and get to bed. I seriously think it's more than just being an introvert and stress; I think he's _lonely_. He's got Agent Coulson, but _everybody_ knows what Coulson's like."

"'Agent's Agent' was tossed around at movie night last week. People aren't sure if he's gotten better or worse since Clint came on board. Friend over in Intel doesn't know if she wants to kiss him or toss him overboard," Darla interjected with a small laugh.

"And Coulson's probably not completely sure about what exactly to do, which affects everything as well." Meg sighed and shook her head, ignoring Darla. "Two, whatever his background is like taught Clint to subconsciously not trust people in power, which he covers up by being cheeky and borderline disrespectful. I don't think he knows he's doing that. I have noticed that I get better reactions from him when I think less 'me nurse, you patient,' and more as somebody who is fully in his corner, no questions asked. I am quite firmly of the opinion that if he could've crawled into my lap Friday evening, he would've. He was probably about five minutes away from just doing it anyways, even though he's probably got a good 20, 30 pounds and six inches on me."

"_Females_," Beeks made the word sound like a curse and a revelation. "How nobody realized…there _had_ to have been…thought I knew…I need to," he trailed off as he jotted down notes. "Damn. Okay. I'm just going to set aside my curiosity at how he ended up fixating on Phil so much for now, although I suspect it was just because Phil was in the right place at the right time, fell into the right way to handle Barton, and got damned lucky. I'll talk with Mark James and get some standing orders going. For now, just run with your instincts and let me know if there are any problems."

Meg nodded as Darla covered a yawn. "Of course. He's not the first person here who I've done this for; I can't even call him one of the more stubborn. Just shy and not sure about what sort of help he can ask for. Orders and notes kept in the usual spot?" She paused, then shook her head. "And frankly, I would've done all this on my own. I realized Friday that deep down, part of him really is, well, not hurting but not happy."

"I know." Beeks relaxed and smiled as the nurses stood up. "Thanks, you two. I'm very glad that you helped develop this, Meg. It's useful, and yes, everything will be where it's supposed to be."

"Single and old, Doctor Beeks, I'm single and old and never had any kids of my own. Hurts me to see people unhappy," Meg tossed over her shoulder as she left the room. "Stop laughing, Darla. You're older than I am."

"58 isn't old!"

* * *

"Almost left without you!" One of the pilots called out as Clint hurried into the Quinjet, the ramp closing almost on his heels. Not seeing an open seat, Clint just moved up to the cockpit and shrugged.

"Had to do some last-minute stuff, sorry."

"No worries," the pilot drawled before raising his voice. "Welcome to SHIELD Air, I'm Jonas and I'll be your pilot today. My copilot is Suzanne. We've a full flight today, so get friendly with your neighbors. Should we crash, emergency exits are wherever you can get out. For a water landing, a life raft is next to the exit ramp and I hope you all know how to swim. So sit down and thank you for flying with us today. First stop, Long Island."

Clint still didn't see an actual seat, so he just sat down on the floor and pulled out the folder with the mission information. Staring at it, he tried to work out just why the nurses seemed so interested in _him_; after all, it wasn't like he was sick. Unless he was, and they weren't telling him anything. He frowned slightly as he dug out a notebook and started writing notes on the mission.

"Pennsylvania's next!" The shout came from the cockpit.

Shaking his head, Clint realized that he'd _liked_ the concern that the nurses had shown more than he'd thought. Running down the list of everybody else that he knew, Delores was good for advice, but she didn't really seem like the sort that would've pushed him the way that the nurses had. June…Clint snorted. She wasn't SHIELD, so she was automatically out. Coulson…Clint sighed. He didn't know about Coulson. He wasn't even sure what to call him – handler was too impersonal and the only training that Coulson actually gave him was telling him to figure it out then picking everything to shreds. "Boss," he muttered to himself. "Mother-henning paternal pain-in-the-ass boss. That's what he is." He smirked. "Have to remember that one to use on him."

"Yo, Barton! You getting off or not?" The call had Clint jumping up, shoving his things into his backpack. He'd see if he could go to Manhattan that weekend and talk with Delores.

"Although," he mused as he pulled out his car keys, "Work it out, Barton. That's what she'll say so if you try to work it out _now_, she's more likely to help. And she'd probably just say that people know what they're doing, _ask_ if there's something that they're hiding, and if it's enjoyable, run with it." Stopping at a red light, he lightly bounced his head against the headrest. "This _sucks_. Hell, _people_ suck. It'd be nice if there was somebody I could talk to that's like Coulson but not. Friend closer to my age." The word felt odd, and he blinked as the light changed. "You don't need friends. You've _never_ needed friends. Friends just end up hurting you."


	34. Chapter 34

Happy spring. Thanks to Hawk at The Beta Branch for betaing this beast.

* * *

Clint reminded himself to stay calm. "No Tim, _you_ shut up and listen to me. I've _looked_ at the reports from Intel. It's crap, yeah, but the end goal is to just go in, grab their research and destroy the place. Sure, I'd love to just sit in a tree and read a book, but there aren't any good perches and if I'm at ground level, that's a lot of sightline problems."

"How did you even get that?" Tim frowned. "I didn't get anything until this afternoon."

"Coulson. Look," Clint pulled out the pictures and map, suddenly feeling like he _knew_ what to say. "We don't know what they've done to the inside, but the blueprints show a lot of places inside that, if you really want me shoved in a corner, will work. Badly, but they'll work. But if what we were told was true, you're going to want as many people as is possible. I'm not _just_ a sniper. You know that. Yeah, I've got the training, and I do work best at a distance. But I have worked close in. I was in on that op to retake the bases last year, and that was just a lot of clearing rooms. So I don't have the background that the rest of your guys do, tough shit. I can do the job."

"Barton," Radar's voice was quiet. "Chill. And why is your stuff black and white?" He shifted the map Clint had pulled out to be next to the one that they'd been looking at. "Didn't think Intel did that. I'm jealous."

"I'm cool. I'm just not feeling like playing games tonight. Math test tomorrow. And I asked them nicely, then snuck in and hid everything when they refused." Clint shrugged. "Have to have them like that; can't read the important stuff otherwise."

"Colorblind, too? Even better." The sarcastic tone of Tim's voice finally pushed Clint over the edge.

Erupting out of his seat, Clint fisted his hand in Tim's shirt, pulling the other man halfway across the table. "Fuck. Off," he hissed. "You've been pushing me since we damned well met, and I'm over it. I'm _through_ playing nice, clear? You want the best damned shooter SHIELD has to cover your lazy ass for this-"

"Stand down, both of you." The barked order had Clint releasing Tim and turning to glare at Coulson. "Hortense, that's strike two. Barton, warning for you. Obviously you lot are going to need babysitting. Mission won't be happening until next week at the earliest, so clear out. Hortense, stay. Barton, go sit down over there."

Sighing, Clint obeyed. "Fuckers," he muttered, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms over his chest. "Just wanted to get this shit done and go to the damn range."

"Talking to yourself is usually a bad sign." Clint glanced over, seeing a wry smile on Meg's face as she sat down next to him. "Although I wouldn't know; I usually end up arguing with myself over the smallest things. Ice cream?" She held out a cup.

"No thanks," Clint shook his head. "Don't want to piss off Coulson even more."

"Ah." Meg dug into the ice cream. "Shame, it's the good stuff. And you only live once."

Her casual phrase triggered Clint's memory, and he shifted in his seat to look fully at the nurse. "Meg, am I sick or something?" He could tell that she hadn't expected that question. "'Cause all of a sudden you and Darla are being _nice_ and everything."

The nurse slowly lowered her spoon. "Clint, you are one of the healthiest people I've had the chance to meet. And I've met a lot of people; I've been here for longer than you've been alive. If you were sick, we'd tell you." She tilted her head to one side with a small smile, making Clint think of a bird. "Maybe we just like you."

"Yeah, right," Clint muttered, unable to keep the words from slipping out.

"'Yeah, right,' he says. Absolutely, I say. So tell me, how was your day? Other than glaring at Agent Coulson and the gentleman he's currently reaming out, you're looking much more relaxed. It's not often that you get dinner and a show like this, why not enjoy it?" Meg reached out and lightly ruffled Clint's hair, laughing at the look he gave her.

"They ignored me today and I've got a math test tomorrow. Worst part was dealing with Radar's new team. The lead is an asshole."

"Why do you say that?"

Clint eyed the nurse suspiciously. "He's the one who tried to toss me around in the back of the jet. Now he's upset that I'm saying no, I'm not sitting outside a building, I don't have the same training as everybody else, and I'm kinda a little colorblind. But I can still do my job! The eye doc said so!"

"Okay." The nurse's calm acceptance gave rise to the funny paternal feelings that Clint only got from some of his interactions with Coulson. "Want me to leave a note in his Medical file that he only gets the blunt needles? In the glutes?"

"The what?"

"The ass, Clint. Hortense hopefully now has it slammed into his thick head that just because somebody didn't come up through the ranks of the military, and _his_ branch in particular, it does not mean that they can be shoehorned into things that will serve little to no purpose. I hope that I also made it clear that your particular skill set does not only involve taking people out in dark alleys or sitting on rooftops, and, as scary as it may sound, you might be the best person to be able to access the needed information on their computers since nobody else on his team has the same level of knowledge and any other agent here that would be free to go would only slow them down. Now I get to try and slam it into _your_ thick skull that there are times that words will serve the same purpose as getting physical, especially in the mess hall."

"I _tried_." Clint looked up sourly at Coulson as he sensed Meg quietly stand up and move away. "Trust me, boss, I tried. But he was just writing me off and being an ass about it. This morning, too; he said that he had to apologize or else Radar would be mad. Do I _have_ to work with them?"

"I know. And yes, you have to work with them. Good training." Coulson sat down with a sigh. "Clint, what were you _thinking_? The Mess Hall is not the place for mission planning of this sort _or_ the right place to get physical!"

"He chose the place and the time." Clint shrugged. "Was that a real warning or were you just talking?"

"Ask me tomorrow. For now, yes." Coulson sounded frustrated. "Clint, _everybody_ knows that you want to work alone. But there are times that you can't. And yes, you're right. Sitting outside is pointless; the entire mission would be better served by you staying with the rest of the team. Did you do as I asked and come up with some ideas of your own about this?"

"Started. I did figure out that unless I was able to look and act like one of their guys, I probably couldn't pull off everything on my own. Not yet, at least. Maybe in a couple years, when I've got more experience and training." Clint shook his head as he pulled out the notes he'd scribbled down. "Two questions. Is there anything more? This stuff is crap. And can I go to Manhattan this weekend?"

"Unfortunately, you aren't cleared to see all the raw data on anything yet; it's kept locked up in one of the Intel offices." Coulson caught Clint's thoughtful look. "Don't think it."

"Not thinking, planning," Clint said absentmindedly. "How many offices would I need to go through?"

"Fo- actually, work that out on your own. And don't get caught, since you're obviously determined to ignore my request. Why did you want to go to Manhattan? That time could be better spent trying to learn to work with the team you've been assigned to."

"Now it's _two_ nurses that are acting weird, and I wanted to ask Delores for advice." Clint glanced around. Not immediately seeing anybody to worry about, he turned back to Coulson. "And yeah, it wouldn't be a problem except that I don't know why or what's going on because I figured out today that I _like_ it. This morning I almost said fuck it and skipped school to _talk_ to Darla. And then Meg last week and just now and I'm confused."

"Ah. No, you aren't going to Manhattan, because you can _call_ Delores. Or e-mail her; I've heard that they've finally gotten that all set up, and that will also give you a chance to ask for her help on how to write essays since I haven't had a chance to ask her for you. And she probably will give you the same advice as I am: deal with it. If you want to talk to them, they're SHIELD employees and Meg, at least, has already taken care of you when you were stuck in Medical. Running away won't help anything."

"Damn. Oh well." Clint stood up. "I'll try again, boss, as long as Tim stops poking. But if he doesn't, I _will_ call him out and I _won't _use just words. I'm going to the range now, then I have to start thinking about the fact that I've got a test tomorrow. And thanks for your help with that paper. Professor said it was tons better."

"You're welcome." Coulson watched as Clint started to walk off, then turned around and came back.

"One other question for you, sir." Clint looked torn between outright curiosity and laughter and raised his voice slightly. "Why'd Fury tell me to ask you about your childish obsession?" He couldn't hold back as Coulson blushed slightly and dropped his head into one hand. "Anything to do with that Captain America poster in your office?" Feeling much better now that he'd had a chance to return the embarrassment he'd felt, he turned and headed off, spotting a few people trying to cover grins.

* * *

"Take two." Coulson glanced around the table. "Hortense and Barton, each of you understand that the other has things to bring to this mission that nobody else has. The rest of you, no encouraging any of this petty sniping at each other." He sat down and calmly opened the top file of a small stack. "Begin. And Clint, Intel didn't realize you were there last night until I asked to look at the security videos. Good hacking job, but next time don't take the originals."

Clint smirked, leaning back in his chair. "What originals? All I have in my briefing file are obviously copies or stuff printed out from the computer. Tim. Truce? We can hate each other all we want but this is work. I don't want to have to come up with another reason why I'm hurt that my bitch of a professor will only see as another reason to call Social Services." Tim's nod only encouraged him and he shifted forward. "So yeah, think going in at around three AM local time would be best."

"Why?" Radar leaned forward. "Earlier in the night would be a lot easier."

"Yeah, but they're busier, and right around two, three AM is when your body really starts to realize that it's not supposed to be awake. Guards'll probably be slacking off some. Four might be even better, but that's getting kinda close to when people start waking up."

"What if I say no, we're going in at a different time?" Tim frowned.

Clint's "then you're an ass" was said at the same time as Radar and Max's "Tim, shut _up_," and Coulson just glanced around with a raised eyebrow.

"Fine," Tim sat back with raised hands. "Go on, Barton. Where'd you get this stuff?"

"Eh, it was just sitting around." Clint stood up and started pointing at the map spread out over the table, glancing at a piece of paper. "Thought about all this last night. Latest satellite recon has guards posted in these positions. If I was going in on my own, I'd wanna approach from this direction, jump the fence, and enter the building through the window that's supposed to be here, since that's close enough to the warmest room in the building. Computers're hot, I'm betting they'll be there. And hope that there aren't too many people wandering around." Straightening up with a sideways glance at Coulson, he shrugged. "But I don't know the best way for a group."

"Is Intel lazy or are they stupid?" Somebody murmured. Clint thought it was Max. "But yeah, I like that angle, Barton. Really, where'd you get this stuff?"

"Floppy disk in bottom left drawer. Wasn't even locked, and who writes down their passwords, because that's just stupid," Clint said, then winced. "Sorry, Boss. Like I said, what they gave us was crap."

"Just tell me which office, Clint." Coulson sounded resigned as he scribbled a note down. "I'll take care of it."

"Guy with all the porn and can I say _creepy_ and the big plant in the corner. Don't know room number or names; isn't like I went in the door. Chick in the first office I went to has a strange fascination with _you_ and the other lady could probably use some help, if the fact that her office doesn't have any personality says anything. Guy who has all the Star Trek fanzines needs to learn to put things in the burn bag. " Clint rolled his eyes. "Even _I_ knew that after a _week_ here."

"Thank you, Clint, for your rather enlightening observations. Now. The mission, gentlemen? I have better things to be doing."

"Seems too simple," Tim stared at Clint. "Care to share the rest of it?"

Nodding, Clint tossed the folder onto the table. "That's everything that I got. Most of it sucks, but could be worse." He glanced over at a muffled snort. "What?"

"I'll tell you later." Coulson carefully didn't look at the archer; if he did, he knew he wouldn't be able to control his expression. It was hard enough to keep from showing his pride at how dramatically Clint had changed from when he'd first arrived – and how amusing his outrage was.

"I don't really like it; it all seems too simple," Tim repeated. "Why not go in through the door? Our mission is to destroy the place, after all, so why go for the shortest route?"

"Why not?" Clint frowned. "We need to get the data. We go in shooting, they'll probably destroy that. But sneak in, have a better chance of getting what we're being sent for. Then we can take the long way out and set explosives. Don't know about you guys, but there's only so much time I can take sitting around watching Star Wars because Medical won't let me do shit. I mean, love the trilogy, but…"

One of the new guys snorted. "Geek, too? Jeez, Radar, for somebody you talked up so much, he's really not impressing me."

Feeling the lack of emotion that Clint had noticed during his last mission, he just stared coldly at the other man. "The _fuck_ I'm a geek. Wanna go three rounds? Range or gym, your choice, I'll take you down every. Single. Time." Leaning forward, he finished, "I'll even shoot off-handed, if that's what you want. Radar, all these guys like this? 'Cause if they are, then maybe I really will just sit up a damn tree and read a book like Tim says I should. Least I'd get something _productive_ done."

"Would you two just _shut up_ already? Daniel, Barton's about the furthest thing from a geek you can think of. What matters is that Agent Coulson says he can work the computers better than the rest of us combined and I haven't seen him take a bad shot yet. When you can nail a guy in the damn _eye_ from across the room when there's a guy in the way then you can talk." Radar slammed his hands down on the table. "Tim, this is a mission to maybe, finally, get you out of the doghouse so yeah, Barton's still a rookie but he's the _only_ damn rookie I'd want watching my back. Clear?"

"The hell I'm a rookie," Clint muttered under his breath.

"You're a rookie until you're not one. You're still a fucking rookie," Radar snapped. "Now shut up."

The discussions and arguments went on for another two hours before Coulson sighed and stood up. "That's enough, gentlemen. Do you have some idea of what you're going to do? Yes? Good. Continue your head butting tomorrow."

* * *

Clint jumped as he felt the vibration of the pager against his side. Pulling it out, he glanced at the message then started to put his things away.

"Going somewhere, Mister Barton?" Clint's math professor stopped in the middle of a sentence and stared at Clint with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah," Clint held up the pager. "Mom hasn't been feeling too good, gotta go take her to the hospital again. Dad's off on a trip this week."

"You do know that electronics like that aren't allowed in my classroom?" The professor moved towards Clint with his hand outstretched. "So I'll just take that, please."

"Um, no," Clint slipped around the professor and headed for the door, "not happening, sorry sir. Look, I really do gotta run; the neighbor that's sitting with her can't drive." He ignored the whispers of the class as he shut the door and started hurrying to his car. A duffle bag from the trunk joined his backpack on the backseat, and Clint glanced at his watch before nodding. He had enough time to get changed before the jet landed.

Stepping out of the bathroom at the airport, Clint immediately started feeling more comfortable. "Probably the uniform," he mused to himself as he saw the Quinjet land. "Yeah, has to be it." Making a mental note to ask Coulson, he grabbed his bags and hurried up the ramp. "Heya. Guessing we're going?"

"No, we're just doing this for shits and giggles," Tim retorted. "Hope that you knew what you were talking about."

"Hope you can trust me to watch your ass." Clint glanced around. "Where's my bow?"

"Changed my mind about you using it. You get to use the same gear as the rest of us." Tim leaned back in his seat with a challenging look in his eyes. "Problem?"

"Yeah. You just _completely_ fucked up!" Clint started digging through his backpack. "I had shit in my quiver that I needed, I've _told_ you about my bow, and you've made me show you my shooting enough that I had to skip out on _sleeping_ some nights just to get everything done!" Glaring at Coulson as he pulled out a notebook and pen, Clint snapped, "I'm doing this one job, sir, then I'm done with this bunch. Three damn things, and nobody could've managed that? Besides, I asked _you_, sir. 'Will you please grab my gear; I'll leave it in your office each morning before I leave.' Guess next time I'll take the risk of my car being the one getting broken into and just bring it all." Brandishing his notebook, he finished, "Want it in writing? Since you can actually _read_ what I write these days?"

"That's something that will be discussed later, Clint," Coulson nodded. "Unfortunately, I wasn't on the Helicarrier either and my request was ignored. Security was waiting for one of these gentlemen to show up. Just to prove to everybody else that _somebody_ will be answering for this, what was it that you were looking for?"

"All those papers I'd shoved into my quiver. Took me _hours_ to work some of that stuff out. My bow." Clint scowled. "My handgun. Everything that you're _not_ seeing right now!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Radar and Max pale as they shared a glance. "Exactly."

Coulson didn't hide his groan. "Hortense, if this wasn't time sensitive…are you _trying_ to get demoted? Okay. Pilots say that we need to refuel at one point in time, we'll just change that to the Helicarrier and I'll have somebody bring your gear out, Clint. Now all of you just sit down and _shut up_."

Glaring at Tim, Clint grabbed the only weapon case that he could see. Opening it, he shook his head as he pulled out the handgun and rifle. "Yeah. Whatever. Coulson, I'm making this official. I'll do this one, then I'm not working with most of these guys again. Find me another team for this sort of deal. That one guy wasn't too bad. Pederson? Peterson? Dunno. Found me in Canada. I can use this stuff this time, and if I can have the file I know you've got stashed away, I can probably remember most of what else I need."

He was aware of Coulson's sigh as he threw himself into a seat. "Clint," Coulson muttered, "Could _you_ try to be a little less antagonistic, too?" He handed Clint the file. "Although thank you for being flexible."

"Whatever," Clint said as he focused on the file. "I'm not the one who decided that the plans were going to be changed; I'm just responding to _them_. Now shut up, I've got shit to do and I wanted a nap." Suddenly aware of Coulson's shoulders shaking, he warily looked over. "What."

"Nothing. Nothing." Coulson pushed himself up and went to check in with the pilots. He didn't try to hid his amusement.

The jet landed and the team slipped off. Coulson watched them vanish into the twilight, hoping that they'd be able to keep it together long enough to get everything done. Slouching down into a seat, he dropped his head into his hands and sighed.

"Seen worse." One of the pilots was holding out a candy bar. "Although Barton's the odd man out and the unknown variable. But a bunch of us have been watching his training simulations and tandem flights, and while he's a mouthy little bastard, he doesn't let it get in the way of working. I'd fly with him."

"He's not the one I'm worried about." Coulson took the treat with a nod of thanks. "Up to me, I would have just sent him in solo, or with one or two other people. No, I'm hoping that the rest of them can function as a team. I'm still trying to figure out how that one was put in charge."

"Rumor I heard was that he was just the next in line." Shrugging as he stood up, the pilot gave Coulson a grin. "But what do I know; I'm just a pilot, right?"

Coulson snorted. "_'Just'_ a pilot, right. I know that the pilots are the worst for gossip and keeping up with the rumors. Which reminds me, what were the odds on this lot actually making it out without injury?"

"Hundred to one for absolutely nothing, five to one for major injuries, dead certain for minor injuries to at least one of them. Mostly because of the guys that just came back from purgatory, not Barton." The pilot looked mildly offended. "And we don't _gossip_. It's needed internal intelligence required for the smooth operations of SHIELD."

"Don't forget the others. Even odds that Coulson will make some sort of threat that won't get backed up. Fifty to one that he'll fall asleep," the co-pilot called back.

"Not up to me to promote or demote people, and the only other places for Hortense to go are either back to the military or another promotion, although it is a nice threat and I'll be putting that in my report. So that's one down." Coulson chuckled lightly. "And two bucks on somebody getting shot or stabbed."

* * *

"Huh." Clint stared at the fence with the rest of the team. Reaching out, he lightly punched Radar in the arm. "Dare you to touch it."

The ominous hum from the fence echoed as Radar reached out and punched back. "Shut it." Turning to his other side, he murmured, "Barton's typical gear would've been ideal here, you know. I'll go get a stick."

Clint just watched curiously as Radar forced a stick under the lowest wire and started digging a small trench next to it. He grinned as he watched the other man carefully work his way under the fence and waited for his turn to do the same. "Cool," he whispered to himself. "Gotta remember this."

The group quietly made their way inside the building. The few men that they met were quietly knocked out and dumped in random rooms; Clint thought about turning and glaring at Tim. If he'd had his bow, not only would they not have to worry about people waking up, but it could've been done quietly. Reaching the room on the map that everybody had – finally – agreed probably held the computers, Clint's eyes widened. "Ew," he couldn't hold back his initial reaction.

"Move it, Barton," the harsh whisper came as Clint was already heading to the closest computer, pulling blank floppy disks out of his pocket. "Rest of you too."

"Damn," Clint muttered as he finally broke through the first screen. "This is gonna take too long." Closing his eyes, he started thinking out loud. "So plan B. Pull the drives. Except that I don't know what all's on them. So…yeah. Pull the drives and hope."

A hand grabbed his shoulder before Clint could kneel down to get at the computer tower. "What was that, Barton? Thought you could break through this stuff."

"Not fast enough," Clint hissed, shaking off Tim's hand. "So we're gonna pull the hard drives." He put words to action. "Go do a couple yourself. I'm not your pet monkey."

They made up the time that had been lost from needing to dig under the fence, but Tim was still pushing everybody to move faster. Clint realized that it had been too easy when they started to make their way to the front, and were suddenly presented with a wall.

"Right," Max said, putting words to action.

"Whoops," Clint said a couple minutes later as he snugged the butt of his rifle against his shoulder. "Probably should've gone left."

"Shut it, Barton!"

* * *

Coulson and the pilots looked up from their game of cards as the team returned. Holding out two dollars to the pilot, Coulson shook his head. "I'm not a fan of radio silence, gentlemen. I expect to be told things, like a request to have the first aid kit out when you return. Good thing I thought ahead." He started throwing cold packs as the pilots started their pre-flight checks. "Success?"

"Barton, no." Max pointed at Clint as the archer opened his mouth. "He pulled the hard drives, we got in a fight, and we successfully destroyed the building. Or at least their research areas. Mostly a success."

"Clint. Why pull the drives?" Coulson watched neutrally as Clint shook his head.

"It would've taken me too long to get through their security. SHIELD's is easy, because I've been practicing on it. These guys were really different though." Clint frowned. "So yeah. Isn't like I don't have enough to do already, but gonna talk to the tech guys and see if they can teach me some tricks to make all this faster next time."

Nodding, Coulson watched as the men carefully put their things down and fell into seats. As the plane took off, he wasn't surprised to see Clint already asleep. "Radar." he jerked his head towards the cockpit.

"Yessir."

Coulson didn't say anything for a minute, watching to see if the rest of the team fell asleep. "I want your opinion on your team."

Radar yawned. "I'm going to ask for a transfer. Tim is crap as a leader, and Daniel isn't much better. Tom just goes along with those two. Sure, Max is my friend, but he gets along with them better than I do and I don't want to be miserable. Can I ask a question?"

"Go ahead." Coulson felt the attention of the pilots.

"Few, actually. How the hell do you get Barton to keep his damn mouth shut, how did you know that somebody would probably need first aid, and why are you asking me all this?"

Chuckling lightly, Coulson just shook his head. "I trust your opinion and I'll be asking everybody on the team this, you always expect people to have at least minor injuries after infiltrating an enemy base, and Clint…you just need to let him talk sometimes. He stays quiet when he needs to and he's far more observant than people think."

"Point, I think." Radar frowned thoughtfully. "He didn't say much unless other people had already talked. Guess he's just a smart-ass."

"Usually. Thank you."

* * *

"Well, Agent Barton, what brings you in today?"

Clint meekly held out his hand. "I got a papercut. Coulson says that I have to come in if I get hurt on a mission, even if it's just a papercut, so I'm here." Ignoring the snort of laughter from the doctor, Clint turned to Coulson. "Mother hen."

"Impressive papercut," Doctor James noted, gently moving Clint's fingers. "Across the back of four fingers, too. At least tell me that you were hitting something that deserved it?"

"You could say that," Clint said vaguely. "But I can move everything, it doesn't hurt, and it wasn't even bleeding all that much after the first little bit. Just like a papercut."

"And does this 'papercut' have anything to do with the gentleman who also came in with a bruised cheek?"

Clint shrugged. "I can say that they probably happened at about the same time, but I will also quite emphatically deny any personal involvement in Tim's bruise." He glanced at Coulson. "I _still_ think we should've brought marshmallows and hot dogs."

"Clint, you generally don't want to eat food cooked over fires from a place where they're experimenting with who knows what." Coulson sighed. "As I've said repeatedly."

"It was a big campfire in the woods. You need hot dogs and marshmallows for those." Clint nodded and slid off the table. "D'you have anything else for me, or can I spend the next few days just on school stuff?"

"Both; we leave Friday and I'll get you everything tonight. Sorry that you don't get much downtime."

"Eh," Clint shrugged. "Like it better this way."

Doctor James handed Clint a tube of antibiotic ointment and a box of bandages. "Use this for a few days, but you're good to go. Thanks for being patient."

"Cool," Clint headed out the door. "Thanks, doc. Coulson, gonna go bug the tech geeks about that hacking stuff for a bit."


	35. Chapter 35

Adore the beta readers. I do.

* * *

"Hate sand," Clint grumbled. "Hate the sun, hate the heat."

"Hate listening to all the bitching," Coulson's voice made Clint grimly smile. "Status."

"Hot. In place, no sign of people." Clint took a deep drink of water. "What took you so long?"

"Emergencies wait for nobody, and I knew you'd be able to pull this off without somebody holding your hand. Targets have reportedly not left yet, but there's some activity going on that suggests they'll be leaving later on today."

"Good." Clint balefully eyed a bug that was getting a little too close for his liking. "Because this _sucks_."

"Right. Don't get in any fights with the local fauna. Check back in a couple hours; I'm taking a nap."

Snorting, Clint pulled his book from his backpack. "Lazy. What's fauna?"

"Animals and insects. Coulson's already snoring." The pilot's report had Clint laughing. "Which means you actually won the pot that he'd fall asleep this time, along with a few others. How's that sunburn coming?"

"Hope that it isn't. Barton out." Clint shifted slightly in the sand and focused on his book.

* * *

Clint stumbled as he tried to climb into the jet. His mouth felt like he'd swallowed a pound of sand and his tongue felt at least twice its normal size. "Hey," he wheezed. "Water?" He let his pack drop and gently set his bow down, glad to be out of the sun. "Next time, wait in jet."

Coulson held out a bottle and carefully watched as Clint cracked it open, sparing a glance at the two burning cars. "If it's possible. Sip it. _Slowly_. How long were you without water?"

"Little over a day?" Clint gently shook his head. "I think?" He couldn't restrain himself and chugged the entire bottle. He immediately realized his mistake as his body rebelled, barely making it to the door in time. "Shit," he groaned, slumping against the side of the jet. He'd thought that he was sore, now it was even worse and his headache intensified. The realization that he had Coulson there to watch his back let him finally acknowledge the bone-deep fatigue that he was feeling.

"Back into the jet, Clint," Coulson carefully coaxed the archer into a seat and moved up to tap the pilot on the shoulder. "Punch it. Have Medical waiting when we get there." Grabbing at the first aid kit, he knelt down in front of Clint and pulled out a couple cold packs. "Clint," he shook his head when the only response was a curious hum. "Want to cool you down some. It can't hurt. Leave these in place, okay?"

Clint jumped when he felt Coulson stick the cold packs on his neck. The sudden shock gave him enough energy to open his eyes. "Huh? Oh. Sure."

"I'll wait until you're not suffering from dehydration and who knows what else to ask you why you didn't let me know you were out of water," Coulson said. "Haven't you seen an environment like this before?"

"Nnn," Clint groaned. "No. Ow. Can I take a nap?"

"Rather you didn't, but you can lie down." Coulson guided Clint to lie down on the floor of the jet, pulling off his jacket and tucking it under the younger man's head. Finding the book in Clint's bag, Coulson settled next to the archer and started reading out loud, occasionally glancing down to make sure that Clint was still awake. Rubbing his face, he winced at the realization that he had managed to get sunburned. How, he didn't know. "Clint, still with me?" At the archer's low grumble, Coulson just nodded and hoped that this was as bad as it was going to get. A sudden thought hit him, and he opened another bottle of water, pouring some into the lid. "Here, Clint. Little bit at a time. Open up."

* * *

"Agent Barton, what happened? Meg." The doctor didn't wait for Clint's answer as he bent down and taped a probe to Clint's finger.

Clint grunted as the nurse cut his sleeve up to his shoulder, hearing Coulson answer. He'd been kept awake during the flight and after the first little bit of water he'd started to feel sick again; all he cared about was _sleeping_. He felt her tie the tourniquet around his arm and braced himself for the pinch of the needle. When he felt Meg's hand resting on his arm a lot longer than he remembered it taking in the past, he mustered the energy to open his eyes. "Huh?"

"You're pretty dehydrated, Clint. You're bleeding slowly and…there. Done with that part. Be happy that I was lucky to have gotten this on the first try." Clint just closed his eyes. "Doctor, think two lines?"

"No, I'm not that worried. When he's more with it, see how he feels about eating though."

Clint let the words wash over him, enjoying the cool sensation of the IV fluids running into his arm. Already starting to feel a little better, he tried to sit up. Hands on his shoulders kept him from making it all the way.

"Nope." Meg's tone was light. "Let me be the one in charge here; I know you don't feel too good. So just follow my instructions and we'll get you inside and in a real bed in a flash, okay? Maybe some ice; your mouth is probably feeling pretty disgusting?"

"Yeah," Clint breathed the word out. "Tired too."

"You look it. Let's get you onto the stretcher." Meg lightly patted Clint's shoulder as soon as he'd stretched out on the gurney and she'd tossed a sheet over him. "Better?"

Clint didn't respond, rolling over as much as he could and falling asleep.

* * *

When he woke up, he was almost feeling like normal; things had mostly stopped hurting and he felt like he actually wanted something to eat. Yawning as he sat up, he glanced around the room. Feeling unsettled when he discovered that there wasn't anybody there, he grabbed at the call bell. Drawing his knees to his chest, Clint tried to tell himself to calm down and stared at the door.

It felt like an eternity before Darla walked through the door. "Morning, sunshine!" She chirped, then glanced at her watch. "Yep, morning. Technically. Feeling better?"

"Yeah." Clint winced at the harshness of his voice. His mouth was still dry. "Can I maybe, yanno, get out of bed?" Darla frowned and Clint felt a sinking feeling in his chest. "Or not. I'll watch TV or something. And I'm hungry."

"Let me check a couple things," Darla said carefully, "I think that won't be a problem, if you'd like to come eat at the desk. Doctor James is still asleep, so you'll have to wait until later to be released."

"Cool." Clint relaxed. "Why'd all this happen?"

"Why do you think?" Darla sat down on the bed. "Not enough water means dehydration. If it gets too bad, you can get really sick or even die. There's a saying that you can go three days without water, but people generally ignore the little asterisk at the end of the phrase: dependent on the situation. A hot desert in the sun, like where you were, means that you don't get nearly as much leeway with not drinking anything." Reaching out, she rested her hand on top of Clint's foot and gave it a light squeeze. "So next time?"

"Next time I'll bring even more water. Somehow." Clint responded to the touch by sliding his foot down the bed some, closer to the nurse. "Or say when I'm out? Dunno, I had to wait a couple days for my target to show. We knew where he was going to be, but not exactly when. But I really thought I had enough, and it wasn't totally safe for the jet to hang around close since it wasn't exactly a friendly place. I had to hike over the border."

"How much did you bring? And how much did you eat?" Darla glanced at the IV bag next to Clint's bed before standing up and starting to change it. "That probably didn't help matters much."

"Eh, couple gallons," Clint shrugged. "Wasn't really hungry. But I made the shot, that's what matters." He jumped slightly as the nurse firmly tapped him on the top of his head with a knuckle. "What?"

"What _matters_, Mister, is that you stay healthy while doing your job, since I know of at least four people that would be very upset if you died." Darla glanced at the door. "So, you're sitting up, did you feel dizzy when you did?" When Clint just shook his head, she nodded. "Going to help you get up, then, and tell me if you do start feeling funny. Your head is hard enough that it can handle getting thwacked, but it looks bad on _my_ record if I let people fall. But you probably want real clothes, not a hospital gown."

Clint let the nurse help him stand up and follow him to the bathroom, but when she started to unsnap the shoulder of his gown, he shook his head. "Don't." He pressed himself against the wall when she gave him a firm look and put a finger on his chest.

"Knife. Several years old, based on the color and texture. You're lucky to be here because if it had punctured a lung, you'd've probably been dead." She pushed deeper. "Hit a rib; bet that hurt, yeah?" She moved her finger. "Again, knife, several years old. Gut can be tricky; hit an artery and again, you're dead. Hit the intestines and you're fighting infection." She slid her hand around to Clint's back. "This one probably just missed your kidney. Somebody really did a number on you, didn't they?"

Clint didn't relax. "I said no. He got mad. How'd you know all that?" He eyed the nurse suspiciously.

"I was an inner-city trauma nurse in a city with violence problems so I've seen a few knife wounds and more than my share of scars, and who do you think helped get you into that gown?" Darla sadly smiled. "Hard to forget the big tough guys with more tattoos than bare skin getting scared when I told them that I had to start an IV."

"When was that?" Clint shifted further away from the nurse when she reached for his shoulder again. "I'm not a kid. I can get changed myself."

Darla pointed at his IV. "I know you can. But that isn't set up so that I can just disconnect the line easily – Meg likes her tape jobs – so unless you happen to be an expert at feeding IV bags through long sleeves, you'll need some help." Stepping back, she nodded. "Compromise. Let me know when I can come back in and help you with a shirt. Promise me that you won't try it on your own? I don't want to make you go through another IV stick if you don't have to, and you have to keep on getting fluids until Doctor James gives the okay to stop them. How old were you?"

"You answer my question first." Clint started to move to where he remembered clothing being kept. A light tug on his arm had him stopping. "Um."

"Sixties and seventies. Look at me, Clint." Clint reluctantly shifted his gaze from the wall to her face. "Promise that you'll let me help you out?"

"I've learned how to do it." Clint shook his head. "And it isn't hard, even one-handed." With a stubborn look at the nurse, he added, "I've always had to do this stuff on my own. Only here have you nurses actually, yanno, _helped_. All the ones I had before I came here only heard what the pol-" he cut himself off, still trying to figure out where the urge to just start talking came from. "They just didn't seem to care."

"It takes work to look beyond the police reports and criminal records to see the person, true." Darla sighed. "We're only human, after all. But you're a good man, Clint, if a little stubborn. I'll be waiting outside, let me know if you need any help."

Clint waited until the door clicked shut before swiftly locking it and moving to stare in the mirror. "Stop _talking_, Barton," he muttered as he roughly pulled off the hospital gown. "Nobody needs to know this stuff. It's not _relevant_." Pulling on the pants he found and skipping socks, he scowled and roughly ran his hand through his hair. "But that's the problem. You _like_ them. How they're acting." He sighed, suddenly feeling confused. "Wonder if this is what having a real family is like. Besides, worst they can do is ditch you and it isn't like you haven't had experience with _that_ before. And Coulson said to run with it." Straightening up and reaching for a towel, he nodded. "Okay then." Pulling the door open, he asked, "Hey, do you have more tape?"

Curiously, Darla nodded and pulled a roll out of her pocket. "Always have tape." She watched closely as he tore a couple pieces off. "Well, I haven't seen that before."

Clint just let the corner of his mouth turn up as he taped the IV tubing to his shoulder. "I used band-aids for this in prison, since it was easier to get a couple of those than a roll of tape. Plus, they allowed for some more movement in the tubing so it wasn't always pulling on me. And I didn't have to deal with sleeves and a bag of whatever that wouldn't fit through them." Sliding on a sweatshirt, he shrugged. "Food?"

"Answer my question, too?" Darla grabbed the IV stand. "But we can see if Susan will run over to the Mess Hall for you."

Clint didn't try to stop the words this time. "16. Then went to juvie until I was 18. Got in a lotta fights there and ended up getting hurt a few times."

"I bet," Darla nodded as they approached the nursing station. "Susan, can you go get some food for Agent Barton, please? Toast and juice."

"Thanks," Clint said with a grin. The tech giggled and ran off.

"Heartbreaker." Darla's voice was dry. "Few more questions, mister, because I'm still trying to figure it all out. What's wrong?"

"It's three in the morning, I'm wide awake, I've got to sit through a post-mission session with Beeks, I've got mission debriefs, and I didn't finish a paper that's due tomorrow. Today?"

Darla looked at Clint skeptically. "What's wrong with Doctor Beeks? And it's Tuesday."

"I don't _know_. I mean, he hasn't done anything that would make me not want to talk to him, but it's like there's this little voice in the back of my head that's telling me that he's just going to screw me over like everybody has in the past and it's awkward talking to him even about all that post-mission crap." Rubbing the back of his neck, Clint finished, "And yeah, I do trust people here but it's still _hard_, you know? Sometimes I still can't believe that I trust _Coulson_ as much as I do."

"Come here, you." Darla carefully stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "So your brain is messing with your brain, huh?"

Clint relaxed into the hug and let her tuck his head under her chin. He felt happy at the lack of instant rejection and decided that it was nice that Darla was as tall as she was. "You 'n Meg are easier. Doesn't make any _sense_."

"It makes a lot of sense to me." Darla gently started rubbing the back of Clint's neck. "Beeks is a guy. Who was the first man to actually show you some real, unconditional respect?"

"Coulson," Clint started to feel overwhelmed by emotions and blinked back tears. "Sometimes wish he was my real dad. Yeah, I know he's too young but he doesn't _act_ it. Jacques taught me a lot 'nd then got mad. He ended up getting caught by the Feds. Coulson told me he's serving 25 to 30." He bitterly laughed. "Part of me wants to go break in there and show _him_ what it feels like to be, be…"

"Betrayed?" Darla's voice was calm. "Hold on one second, Clint, I think Susan's coming back with your snack." Clint didn't move, not that Darla would let him. "Thank you, Susan, why don't you go see if anybody else needs some help."

Suppressing a yawn, Clint turned his head slightly to see the tech and smiled. "Thanks for the food." He watched as she blushed and ran off. "Huh."

"Shy smiles from cute operatives get her anytime. Don't worry, she won't follow you around. Talk to her friends about how cute you are? If they aren't already doing that, then they certainly will be after tonight." Darla sounded amused. "Although if you ever wanted to practice flirting, she'd be a good target. Now, back to what's-his-name. You could, but what would that accomplish? Not a lot, probably. If you really want to see him punished, go talk to people at the prison, find out when he's up for parole and talk then. Especially if you look successful, that will help."

Clint couldn't help it. "The suit?" he whined, mentally wincing at how he was acting.

"Doesn't have to be a suit," Darla laughed and let him go. "Let me show you what some of the younger nurses were giggling over the other day while you eat your toast. Slowly." Reaching over on the desk, she picked up a box of tissues. "Here. Tears _and_ a shy smile? I'm surprised that she didn't pass out!"

Clint laughed then, still feeling like his emotions were out of control. "I don't understand?" Roughly swiping at his eyes, he made a face. "I feel all weird."

"Weird how?" Darla firmly pushed Clint into a chair and knelt in front of him. "Headache, chest pain, hurting anywhere else? Feel like you're going to pass out? Puke?"

"No." Clint shook his head. "Well, a headache. Better than earlier though. It's just that I feel like I want to laugh and cry and I'm _confused_."

"Ah. Definitely no school for you today, and drink your juice." Darla reached up and Clint watched as she increased the drip rate on his IV. "Did you know that mood swings and anxiety can also come from being dehydrated?" She winked at Clint. "I was reading up on it; you and all my other patients were asleep and Agent Coulson left an hour or so ago, muttering about a shower and more sand than a man should ever have to see. I suspect that once he got out of the shower, he may have tripped and fallen into his bed." Glancing around, she whispered, "I gave him decaf and a sleeping pill. Don't tell."

"Oh." Clint didn't know what to think. "Okay?"

"You know what? Grab your snack and go back to your room. I'm going to get Susan back to man the desk, and we can talk some more with you in your bed, okay? And I'm not seeing you drinking your juice, young man." At her look, Clint grabbed the cup and downed it all. "Good. Now go, I'll be right in with something for your head."

* * *

Clint had fallen asleep with the nurse gently running her fingers through his hair, and when he woke up next Beeks was sitting in the chair next to the bed reading a book. "Hey, Clint. Figured I'd catch you here instead of making you sit in my office. Unless you want to go someplace else, but we need to stay inside Medical since Doctor James hasn't released you yet."

"I've got school," Clint said as he sat up with a yawn. Pulling his knees to his chest, he picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "And a paper to turn in, even though I didn't finish it."

"It's almost noon. Knees down, Clint." The psychiatrist reached out and lightly tapped Clint's leg. "I want you to try talking to me without curling up in a ball. I know you don't like this, but trying to protect yourself and hide like that doesn't help anybody." When Clint didn't move, he sighed and stood up. Sitting at the foot of the bed, Beeks gently ordered, "Clint, one leg down and look at me. You're being irrational and paranoid. Has anybody here, who wasn't actively betraying SHIELD, done anything to hurt you?"

"They will," Clint muttered, lowering one leg slightly. "Eventually."

"And you now automatically think the worst of everybody because of a few people?" Beeks let his frustration show. "Clint, would you damn well look at me and _tell_ me what your damn problem is?"

Clint's head shot up when he heard Beeks slap the bed. Meeting Beeks' eyes, he was startled to see the hurt in them. "It's just…you know," forced its way out. "I, I _can't_."

"Frankly, Clint, I expect this from a child, not from a grown man. And no, I don't know. Stop using that phrase with the goal of not answering a question. Not to mention, it isn't that you can't, it's that you _won't_. Big difference there." Beeks watched with satisfaction as Clint's other leg slowly lowered and the archer leaned forward. "I'm not going to clear you for another mission yet. No, I think your time will be better served by talking to me. Hopefully in a couple months you'll be able to go back out again."

"That's not fair!" Clint burst out. "You agreed! Mission stuff only!"

"I'm allowed to step in if I think that missions might be affected, and I'm thinking that they might start to be. Think about it." Nodding sharply, Beeks patted Clint's leg and stood up. "Come see me whenever you're allowed to leave."

"No." Clint glared at Beeks. "You're asking me to change _me_. I've been like this all my life, I can't just change it because _you_ want me to." Eyeing the smug smile he was being given, he finished, "You're a bastard."

"No, I'm not. My parents were quite happily married since well before I was born." Beeks firmly shut the door and returned to sit on the bed. "I am trying to help you _get over_ some of the hang-ups that you have. I don't care about getting you to go out and party with people. I want you to realize that you're stuck with us-"

"I _know_ I'm stuck with you," Clint interrupted.

"And that you've got more resources available to you than just talking with Phil because frankly, he's not _able_ to do the things I do." Beeks ignored Clint. "That's not changing who you are in _here_ and _here_." Firmly poking Clint in the chest and forehead, he sat back. "I also want you to realize that you had a shitty past which you're hanging onto far too much that screwed you up more than you realize. It's my _life_, Clint, to help people out. I didn't become a psychiatrist simply because it's a common theme in my family, I did so because I could _help_ people. _You need my help_."

"You're saying that I '_need_' help. What if I don't _want_ it?" Clint shoved himself backwards on the bed. "I _know_ I had a shitty, fucked-up life before I came here. What if I'm _happy_ just being the way that I am?"

"Are you? Are you really, _truly_ happy?" Beeks folded his arms over his chest and firmly stared at Clint. "With only a few exceptions, you're so determined to keep people at a distance to protect yourself that you're about to really mess something up, Clint. Mission, something here, you. Maybe more than one. And probably in a really big way, too."

"I can _do_ my job," Clint snapped. "Being _happy_ doesn't have anything to do with it. _Friends_ don't have anything to do with it. I do what I'm told. And it works for me, I have fun in my life, and it's better than anything else I can remember. So anybody who tells me different can just _fuck off_. That includes _you_."

"That A.I.M. mission. I heard rumors that you were getting into it with the team leader until somebody broke it up, and that there were a few tense moments actually _on_ the mission because of all the in-fighting. _You_ told me about that. You can't put it all on other people, Clint, because at least half of it was from you. Yes, the way that you met wasn't ideal, but then _you_ didn't back off when _you_ should have. This past mission; you didn't even _think_ about letting Phil know that you were out of water, which landed you in here. Want me to continue?" Beeks didn't try to hide his frustration. "You're not happy. You say you are, but you aren't. And what's that about friends?"

"Can I have something to eat?" Clint avoided the question.

A meal bar was tossed in his lap. "Here. I'm _tired_ of playing games with you, so it stops, right now. Will you just answer my damn question?"

"Friends just hurt you in the end." Grabbing at the bar, Clint rapidly unwrapped it and took a large bite. "Never needed 'em and it's easier without. Fuck _people_." He narrowly glared at the shrink as he watched Beeks lean back with a grim smile. "And fuck _you_."

"And _there's_ a core hurt. Thank you, Clint, for finally _telling_ me that. Your father doesn't deserve the honor of being called your father and he took your mother away. Your mother died, leaving you and your brother alone. Your brother hurt you, your first mentor hurt you, somebody you were growing close to here hurt you. All I know about the pre-circus years is that you spent a few of them in an orphanage, which probably wasn't the best experience, and now you automatically think that people will hurt you. Do you think that maybe, just maybe, we can talk like civilized adults for a bit now? I'll even let you have a real meal."

"Fuck you," Clint hissed. "Maybe I don't _deserve_ any of that good stuff."

"Like food? Okay." Beeks shrugged and pushed the call bell. "Although I happen to disagree; nobody's at their best when they're hungry and I don't think a single meal bar is enough to feed you. Being happy and having _healthy_ interpersonal relationships? My job is now to try and convince you that you _do_ deserve all that and maybe even have you figure out why you're thinking that way. And," he leaned forward as Meg entered the room with a meal tray, "I'm giving you a conditional clearance, understand? You work with me, stay honest, and at least _try_ to understand that I'm not going to turn around and abandon you or sing everything over the PA, and I'll allow you out for missions, let you live your life. Clear?"

"Fuck you," Clint scowled as Meg lightly patted his shoulder and left. "Do I have a choice?"

Beeks just shook his head. "No, you don't. And if I have my way, you won't if I deem it necessary from a purely psychiatric standpoint. And would you _please_ figure out something else to say? You're getting repetitive."

"Bathroom." Clint carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Touch my dessert, all bets are off. And leave my mom out of it. I don't remember much, and a lotta what I do remember is that she wasn't really the type of mom that you read about in books or see on TV, but she was still my _mom_. You don't say _shit_ about her."

"How about that it's a damn shame she died? That she obviously had some influence on your life? You're sounding pretty damn protective of a person you can't remember."

Beeks almost missed Clint's quiet "fuck off" as the bathroom door gently clicked shut. He glanced at Meg as she returned with another tray.

"Told you," she said dryly. "Darla and I get the whole story through being nice, you have to push him probably harder than you've ever pushed anybody before." Holding out a second tray, she nodded. "If you want something to eat; if not, Clint will eat it. Growing boys and all that. Let me know when I can come in and do my nursing thing since I want to get his IV pulled, and Doctor James will be here one-ish, he said, unless he gets waylaid by an emergency. Think that's enough time?"

"Maybe. Remind me again why I joined this chicken-scratch operation?" Beeks took the tray, glancing down at it as Meg laughed. "Ignore the yelling please, and if Phil shows up keep him distracted. And I'll pull his IV for you; I don't want anybody else to come in until I've gotten to a certain point." He groaned. "However long it takes."

"Darla slipped him a strong enough sleeper last night that he's probably still out. And really, sir, don't say anything else about the women in his life? Leave that to us. Darla's said that he willingly talked to her last night about his time in juvie. I think that the two of us have successfully hit 'safe' mode with him."

"Good. But I can't promise that, sorry. I hate having to act like this, but since it seems to be working faster and better than my other options, at least a little…" With a sigh, Beeks nodded at the nurse. "Back into the fray I go."

Clint slowly emerged from the bathroom. "Damn."

"Sorry, not that lucky. However, I didn't touch your food, and I'll even let you have some of mine if you _try_ to stay calm. Clear?" Beeks' tone didn't leave any room for negotiation. "However, let's get you disconnected from that IV. Meg said that you didn't need it anymore."

"At least _somebody_ is being nice," Clint muttered as he pulled off his sweatshirt. Carefully starting to peel the tape off as he walked back towards the bed, he stopped when the psychiatrist suddenly moved to stand in front of him. "I can do it."

"Don't think you want to bleed all over the place." Beeks held out a cotton ball. "And would you let somebody do something for you for once? It really is okay for you to accept help from people because they want to. Okay? Now. Any delays or distractions that you try to pull will just result in even more meetings, if not me pulling all your clearances. You'll be at school or in my office during waking hours, in that case."

Clint didn't respond as he felt his arm being grabbed. Tensing up, he shook his head. "You're an ass."

"Well, you're an ass too," Beeks retorted. "Only way for me to get through to you, it seems. So get your ass back into bed and eat your lunch. I'm going to talk, you're going to listen, and you're going to answer my questions. I'm going to make you _think_, Clint, and put your brain through a workout the likes of which it's probably never had before. Understand? My goal, which I'm telling you _right now_ and I'll put it in writing, is to get that little _boy_ in your head to stop affecting the _man _who is standing right in front of me. Get you to fully understand, _subconsciously_, that _nothing_ was your fault. Frankly, I'm not worried about how you're doing after this last mission because you generally don't have problems, so the hell with that. Sit down."

* * *

Beeks slipped out of the room, shooting a rueful smile at Meg and Doctor James. "Meg, Mark," he nodded. "All yours. Meg, might want to give him some of those cuddles he says he likes to get from you."

"Oh?" Meg glanced up curiously.

"Managed to rip off more of that 16-year-old scab than I thought that he'd let me. He's not feeling too hot right now and I get to do it again and again and again for who knows how long. Can you two please go do whatever it is you need to do so that Clint can get out of here?" Beeks shook his head, sagging against the desk. "I need a damn drink."

"And I need a damn explanation." Coulson didn't try to hide his anger. "Between the three of you, _somebody_ can tell me just what the _hell_ is going on. And why somebody seemed to feel the need to drug me?"

"What is going on," Beeks roughly rubbed his face, "is that I'm trying to help Clint. If he wants you to know more, he'll tell you. And obviously you needed to sleep, if this is the first time you've shown up here since whenever you left."

"I'll tell you later, Coulson. Don't blame them. I think…I think it was needed?" Clint's uncertain voice had all four turning to stare at the archer as he walked up. "Doc, can I go now? I've got shit to do." Coulson was surprised at the odd look on Clint's face; the archer was clearly trying to think something through.

Clint eyed the psychiatrist as he leaned against Meg. "Doctor Beeks, Monday at one, right? I'll let you know if I want to talk earlier than that." Without waiting for answers, he just turned and wandered off, Meg hurrying behind.

Coulson watched Clint walk away before turning back to the doctors. "Was he crying?"

"A few times." Beeks shrugged. "It's healthy. Mentally and emotionally I've just given him a very solid workout. Two hours of talking; I'm surprised that I still have a voice left. I'm giving him a conditional clearance; he comes to see me at least once a week for the foreseeable future and I'll allow him out. Otherwise I won't clear him and he'll be stuck in my office. He knows that."

"Ah," Coulson nodded. "I see. Please keep me updated." Straightening his shoulders, he stared at the two doctors. "Now. We need to talk about the fact that the night nurse deemed it fit to give me a sleeping pill and tell me it was a painkiller. On whose order was that?"


	36. Chapter 36

The end of April is always lovely. Thanks to Hawk and Zara at TBB, as usual.

* * *

Coulson wasn't surprised that Clint was waiting for him. He was surprised that it was in his office. "So, since I know that the door was locked, care to tell me how you got in?" Clint just pulled a battered set of lockpicks out of his pocket and tossed them on the desk. "Ah. Don't do it again, and I'm going to hold onto these for a week. At least. Care to tell me what happened?"

"N-ye…maybe." Clint didn't look up from the notebook in his lap. "Beeks is being…" He scowled. "He threatened to make it so that if I wasn't at school I'd be in his office. Can he do that?"

"That and more." Coulson sat down with a sigh. "You haven't seen all of Medical; they've got a couple rooms that are kept locked from the outside. We do occasionally have people who need them and I wouldn't doubt that he'd just shove you in one if he thinks he can get away with it and survive the experience. After all, he did tell the nurse to drug me and yes, we had words about that. What he's threatening to do is actually pretty mild, and he wouldn't be able to keep you there all day." Leaning forward, he carefully studied Clint, who was looking pale. "Be honest with me. Are you doing okay?"

"I _was_," Clint muttered and swiped at his eyes, missing Coulson's small frown. "Until Beeks said that I'm not happy and push people away and hide from the world and that I _need_ his help. Meg and Darla haven't said anything but they're probably thinking it." Tossing the notebook onto Coulson's desk, he slouched lower in his chair, wrapping his arms around his chest in a tight hug. "So I don't know. I _thought_ I was, but now I'm all confused." He sighed. "_Am_ I messed up in my head?"

"Yes," Coulson said simply as he leaned back. "But I think Beeks is talking about a different sort of messed up. You need a certain level of being nuts to do your job, Clint, and you've got that, in spades. I know I've told you that in the past. But what I think he was talking about is that even though the phrase mouthy little bastard tends to come into play when I ask people about you, the only people that you willingly talk to are me, Delores, and it seems now those two nurses. And Delores isn't here, even though she still calls to ask about you and wants me to send you to Manhattan to help her out with scaring some of the new recruits. Actually, you don't even talk to her all that much; she's feeling mildly put out about that. But anything that even hints at requiring you to be sociable sees you running the other way."

"Oh." Clint didn't look at Coulson. "That could be fun. Helping Delores, I mean."

"Except I'm not going to." Coulson didn't take his gaze off the archer. "Because I agree with Beeks. There are times that you'll have to be social, outgoing, and the center of attention just by personality alone to get a mission done. You have those abilities, but you are, and I'm not sorry for saying this, but you're scared of using them. I was going to just let you figure it out on your own, so I kept my mouth shut and watched to see what happened. Obviously the decision to say something was taken out of my hands. So I want you to do whatever Beeks tells you to do, to cooperate with him, and to use some of your free time to think more on whatever it is the two of you discuss. I don't expect you to go out and start being all buddy-buddy with people; I'm perfectly fine with the fact that you like to stay on your own. Except for when you are working out, then you really must be able to work with somebody because I know that you haven't been keeping up with your hand-to-hand. In general, though, I do expect you to stop actively avoiding the social elements that you might get caught up in. Okay?"

"Let me go to Manhattan this weekend and I'll work with the trainers there. And I'll try to work with Beeks, too." Clint's head came up and he tilted it to one side. "How about that?"

"Clint," Coulson shook his head, "Even though you've been slacking, you're so far beyond what the Manhattan trainers can offer you that you could probably teach _them_ a few things. No. Find somebody here to work out with."

"You?" Clint dropped his eyes. "I'll see if Radar'll be interested when he's here."

Mentally, Coulson sighed. Damn that shrink; Clint hadn't seemed this insecure in months. "I'll think about it." Picking up the notebook, he quickly scanned what Clint had written. "Good for now. Go get this typed up and e-mail it to me. Which reminds me, you need a computer of your own. I know that the tech guys have been working on something portable; would you like one of those or a desktop?"

"Um, desktop." Clint stood up. "Thanks, sir. I'm gonna go do something physical for a bit."

Coulson didn't wait for the door to shut before he picked up his phone. "Jim? Phil. You've got a lot more to answer for now…and fix. If you've fucked Barton up, you do _not_ want to know what _I_ can do. Not seeing your wife would be the _least_ of your problems."

* * *

Wandering out of the locker room, Clint started heading for the treadmills. "Barton!" The sound of his name being called out had him looking around. "Perfect timing. I need a partner. C'mon." He didn't remember the guy's name, but vaguely recognized him from one of the afternoons he'd spent working with Security over the summer.

With a shrug, Clint changed direction. "Hey." He wondered if the phone call Coulson had been making was to somebody about this, but quickly decided that Coulson wasn't _that_ involved in his life.

"Rules are, you and me against those two." The other man spoke quickly. "Keep it clean, Medical doesn't like to see us show up. Try to pull your punches and kicks if you can. Tap out if you give up or think that you're hurt. Cool? Cool."

Nodding, Clint stepped onto the mats and immediately had to dodge a punch. Grabbing the outstretched arm, he tried to flip his opponent and found himself on the floor. He grinned as he reached out for the first ankle he could see. "_Nice_."

He didn't get a chance to say anything more. The realization that once again, Coulson was _right_ annoyed him slightly, but an elbow in his back forced his focus back on the purely physical. He didn't know just how long it took, but eventually Clint's muscles warmed up and he started to remember combinations of moves.

"Nice." Clint grinned over at his partner. Crowden. That was the guy's name. Resting his hands on his knees, he tried to catch his breath. A tap on his shoulder had him looking up.

"Sloppy." Coulson looked at him calmly. "Too sloppy. I'm surprised you only split your knuckles in the last fight you were in, if you were that sloppy there. Let's go."

Clint realized that Coulson was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. "Huh?"

"Hearing test, too, I'm thinking," Coulson muttered. "What did you think I said? You're too sloppy, so I'm going to fix that and make sure that you don't fall back into bad habits."

"Lemme get a drink first," Clint said as he straightened up. "You say no, I'll tell Meg that you want me back in Medical on another IV."

Coulson snorted. "The horror, that I should be afraid of a nurse old enough to be _my_ mother. Here." He held out a cup of water and watched as Clint chugged it. "Now. Do you know what you were doing wrong?"

"Everything?" Clint was aware of people starting to stare and shifted nervously.

Coulson lowered his voice. "Focus on _me_, Clint. You weren't doing everything wrong; you weren't keeping full control. You were fighting because you could, not with a purpose. Every time you go into a fight, you need that purpose."

Clint turned as Coulson started to circle him. "Like what?"

"Getting out in one piece. Taking your target down. Protecting somebody. If you go looking for fights," Coulson kept circling Clint. "They'll find you. That happens, I'll be very upset. No, you don't fight to simply fight, you fight to _win_. Don't ever forget that."

What followed ended up being whispered about for the next week. Clint was flat on his back more often than not, and the one time he was able to put Coulson down, Coulson just nodded and made everything that much harder. "Uncle. Mercy. I give up," Clint finally panted. "Can't move."

"Think you've learned something?" Coulson helped Clint up. "Good job. Next time you'll do better."

"Couldn't do _worse_," Clint carefully worked on regulating his breathing. "But yeah. Don't fight you. I'll lose. And keep my shoulders down and elbows in." He started heading for the locker room. "And don't spend an hour fighting when I still have homework to finish for tomorrow." He eyed Coulson balefully as the other man started walking next to him. "_Next_ time?"

"It's still early, you've time to finish things." Coulson nodded as they entered the locker room. "And I'm thinking a few times a week will get you to where you need to be. Incidentally," he paused just inside the door. "We were clearly the center of attention. How do you feel about that?"

"Too tired to care." Clint leaned against the closest bank of lockers and closed his eyes. "'Cause I feel like I just ran three marathons. Beeks. Those security guys. You." His eyes shot open as Coulson laughed. "Not cool, sir."

"Tough. It'll get easier; tomorrow do something light and then Thursday we can see if anything stuck."

"I know that it'll get easier. I don't have to like it until it does, though." Clint irritably waved at Coulson. "Now go away, I wanna shower and go to the range. And hey, do you know anything about vectors? I can _see_ them all in my head but I can't make the numbers work out on paper."

"Ah. Might I suggest doing your math homework in the mess hall?" At Clint's snort, Coulson rolled his eyes and moved to stand in front of the younger man. "People will help you out. There are a few people who you won't even need to ask, because the minute that they see you with a calculator and a textbook, they'll be walking over to find out what you're doing. Try it."

"No," Clint yawned. "Can't you find somebody who can help me out? Without me sitting in the middle of the mess hall _hoping_ that somebody comes over and _hoping_ that I don't end up embarrassed?"

Coulson groaned, wanting nothing more than to shower and get back to the pile of work he'd left sitting on his desk. "Dammit, Clint…will you trust me on this one? With the notable exception of the pilots, whose unofficial job title is 'busybody,' people generally don't _care_ about what's going on outside of their own social circles. I do know that there are a few people around here that will see that you're reading a textbook and want to know what it is; if they can't help you then they'll either go away or find somebody who _can_, and as soon as they walk away they'll forget about you. Now will you _stop_ looking for excuses?"

"'M not," Clint muttered as he turned to head for his locker. "Go away before I end up pissing you off more."

"There's a difference between mad, frustrated, and completely lost, Clint. I'm not mad. I'm frustrated and I don't know what to say to you right now, because no, I don't know what you're looking for and I'm having annoying flashbacks to you not asking for help with the GED. Spell it out and maybe I'll have an answer." Coulson squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I'm not going to hold your hand and do all this stuff for you, because frankly, you don't need me to. You have the resources here and you know it."

Coulson had to strain his ears to hear what Clint said next. "I'm scared," the archer mumbled as he slid down along the lockers to sit on the floor and dropped his head into his hands. "I'm scared and confused and I don't know what to do because _you_ told me to not pretend and I'm trying not to but it's just getting harder and harder because the minute I think I've figured it out something happens or somebody says something and then Beeks said I was about to screw up big." Shaking his head, he finished, "And yeah, I know I'm not thinking straight right now. Thought that working out would help me feel better but it just made me even _more_ tired and frustrated with myself. And it's my birthday next week and feeling like this is _not_ how I wanted to spend it and I know that Beeks is gonna keep on making me feel crappy for as long as he can."

Coulson groaned as he sat down next to Clint. He'd forgotten, and obviously Clint was still able to look forward to the fact that he was getting older. "Clint," he started, then paused. "I'm going to _shoot_ that shrink," he muttered and felt Clint perk up slightly. "Forget I said that. I've been told that I'm not allowed to make physical threats to SHIELD employees or allies after what happened the last time." He relaxed slightly as Clint chuckled. "I told you that, what, not long after you started? I'm going to amend it now. Me, Fury, Medical, and Psych. No hiding with that list, but anybody else here, whatever. Go ahead and use those masks that the circus – _life_ – taught you to develop."

"Oh." Clint stretched his legs out in front of him.

"It's good training. Just don't go to extremes – figure out how you want to come across and work towards that," Coulson warned as he lightly slapped Clint's knee and stood up. "You don't want people getting close, and I understand that. I don't like having too many close connections either; it needlessly complicates things. Any more problems or concerns and I want you to _tell_ me, not shove it down until it ends up with you feeling like this. Although," he lightly tapped one finger against his thigh, "I think that everything else that happened over the past day hasn't helped much, either. You were fine until you didn't say that you needed more water, which we would have gladly brought you. Just because crossing the border wasn't encouraged doesn't mean that I _couldn't_. Something frivolous like you finishing your book I would've told you to suck it up, an essential means that the rules get broken. Then you had to spend the night in Medical and Beeks did whatever."

"He talked. And yelled, and threatened. I yelled back. I'm still trying to figure out what to think, because part of me wants to just avoid everything but another part of me sees, kinda, what he's getting at and that he's _right_, damn him." Clint shoved himself up. "And Darla and Meg said that I might still feel a little off until I get a real night's sleep in my own bed. But I'll try bringing my math with me to dinner. If anything happens I'm blaming _you_."

"Fine." Coulson nodded and turned for the door. "And as a warning, tomorrow we're going to discuss just _why_ you felt like getting dehydrated enough to spend the night in Medical." He vanished before Clint had a chance to open his mouth.

"Gotta learn how to do that," Clint muttered as he finally made it into the showers. "He's got _all_ the good tricks."

* * *

Dropping into a seat, Clint stared at his meal tray and dubiously poked what he was told was beef stroganoff with his fork. "This looks like dog food," he mumbled and carefully took a bite. "Least it doesn't taste like dog food. Now," he pulled out his textbook. "Coulson'd better be right, or else I'm gonna steal his Captain America doll and stick it up someplace weird."

Absentmindedly eating as he tried to – again – figure out just how the numbers added up, Clint was suddenly aware of somebody sitting down across from him. "Hi, Barton," the person said.

"Hey." Clint glanced up, startled to realize that he recognized the man sitting there. That gave him the confidence to keep going. "Sitwell. You know math?"

Sitwell grinned. "Do I _know_ math? Minored in it in college, did some private tutoring. Yes, I know math."

"Make the numbers work."

With a glance at Clint, Sitwell slid the book around. "Pre-calculus? Why are you reading _this_?"

"They're making me go to school." Clint shrugged and shoved another forkful of food in his mouth. "Get a college degree and all that crap." While he chewed, he thought through how he wanted to come across.

"Oof. Vectors. Hate those things," Sitwell muttered, flipping through the book. "Could never really figure out what they were asking. Just shoved my way through these sections and always cheered when it was over."

Swallowing, Clint shrugged. "I can see it in my head, that's not the problem. The problem is that I can't get what's in my head _out_ in numbers that make sense." Casual, that was the key, and keep it on the math as much as possible. He could figure everything out later when he wasn't so damn tired. He surreptitiously glanced around the Mess Hall, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders when nobody was obviously watching.

"I'd've loved to have had that problem…" Sitwell muttered, flipping through the textbook. "Did you try any of these? Sometimes it's something simple." When Clint curiously held out his papers, Sitwell took a look and whistled. "Damn, Barton, you write messy."

"Rough draft. I rewrite it all neatly for what I turn in."

"And that lets you practice the math more…smart move." Sitwell grinned. "Wish I had thought of that."

Clint just blinked, startled at the approval in Sitwell's voice. He'd started doing it this way because it was faster and less frustrating for him to work everything out, then make sure it was completely legible. It worked for his mission reports, and it had been working for his homework.

"Okay." Sitwell's voice brought Clint's attention back to the present. "If this number is actually a three, it shouldn't be." Pulling out a pen, he flipped the paper over and started scribbling. "Because look at these numbers here. This is just addition – 25 plus 42, 10 plus 48. Some conversion stuff, too. Why are you already working on this stuff? Normally pre-calculus and trigonometry classes don't make it to this sort of thing until later on."

"This was the class that I was told to take." Clint shrugged. "And the stuff that the teacher says to do."

Sitwell was frowning at more of Clint's handwriting. "Whatever. What math did you take in high school? Any trigonometry?"

Shoving his meal tray to the side – the beef stroganoff had tasted much, much better than it had looked – Clint leaned forward over the table to see what Sitwell was doing. "Nope. My story is that I got a GED after dropping out to help take care of my sick mom. I ended up having to teach myself some of this stuff, too."

"Ah." Sitwell looked shrewdly at Clint. "I want to offer a trade, then. I help you out with this stuff, you tell me how to best become a field agent."

Clint took a second to think, unsure it was a fair trade. "Gotta know how to shoot better'n what they train the geeks to in Manhattan. Fighting skills. Need to be able to work with knuckleheads like me and assholes that judge you based on what military branch you came out of. Try asking Coulson – he's probably one of the _biggest_ badasses on this entire boat. Right up there with Fury."

Sitwell winced. "_Him_? Coulson came down hard on my group the other day and we're all a little wary about speaking with him."

Shrugging, Clint glanced down at his textbook. "Yeah, he can be like that sometimes. He has gotten better about stuff, though. But still, ask anyways. Least, that's what he'd tell me, and he's cool about answering even stupid questions. Don't think your question would be classified as stupid. Right, sir?"

"It is actually one of the better questions I've heard in a while. Agent Sitwell, come see me tomorrow at ten. New lesson for you, Clint," Coulson's voice had the two men looking up, Sitwell's mouth dropping open and Clint just smirking. "Prioritizing. We've tracked down the heads of a smuggling ring, and they all need to be taken out. Come find me tomorrow when you get back from school. Tonight, finish your math homework and actually get some damn sleep." Bending down, he smirked. "Incidentally, Clint? I told you so." With a light chuckle Coulson straightened up and walked over to the meal line.

"New offer." Sitwell looked confused. "You help me with my shooting, I'll help you with any of your schoolwork. And you tell me why Coulson said that."

Clint shrugged, not seeing anything strange in what Coulson had said. "That's just Coulson? I don't know, since he's always like that. It's like he's got some sort of weird sixth sense, or is tied into the surveillance system here. He just _knows_." He smiled slightly. "Trying to keep up with him is good training." With a shake of his head, he grabbed at his homework. "Math."

* * *

"Status?" Coulson carefully looked at Clint the next evening.

Clint shot Coulson a lazy grin. "Loads better'n yesterday. School was good, and professors were okay with me missing yesterday since I got everything turned in and managed to look a little sick. Thought more on that stuff that you were talking about yesterday, too. I want more time to think about it before I tell you, because I still don't know."

"Okay." Coulson pointed at a pile of folders on his desk. "I want you to tell me which one you'd go after first, and why." He waited until Clint was halfway through the pile. "And thank you for telling Agent Sitwell to talk to me. He seemed nervous; do you know why?"

"You yell at people. Folks don't know that you're really just a big teddy bear." Clint glanced up mischievously. "Used those words, too. Don't think he believed me."

Coulson snorted. "The horror. You do realize, Clint, if you use this sort of attitude as a base personality to show to the world, everybody will be happier and less likely to wonder when you're going to snap?" He shook his head. "Even if it is at the expense of some people's hard-earned reputations."

"Sir, you walked in your first day here and started scaring people. I can't _touch_ your reputation, no matter what I say."

"I was in a wheelchair at the time, actually, with two broken ankles. Honorably discharged from the Air Force, with them thinking that I'd never be able to walk without pain again, but SHIELD has medical treatments not available anywhere else and I didn't take no for an answer. Like you, SHIELD was my last, best option, especially after I had to cut a rather important family vacation short and refused to say why. I was kicked out of the house and told to never return until I 'stopped with my secret agent and warmongering ways,' although I will admit that I did not help matters any because I could be _very_ hot-headed when I was younger. My siblings' attitudes didn't help, either. And _that_, Clint, is why I'm a very firm proponent of the idea that family is what you make." Coulson blinked, startled. He had never meant to say any of that and took a fast glance at his coffee, wondering if somebody had slipped drugs into the communal pot in the mess hall.

"Oh." Clint felt torn between how to respond, so he kept it simple. He'd've never expected Coulson to have been in the Air Force. He'd expected Army. "Warmongering? SHIELD doesn't start wars, we try to keep them from happening…right?"

"You go into a sovereign country and kill somebody in cold blood with the tacit backing of other governments. Your target could range from a sheepherder to the head of a state. Yes, some of SHIELD's actions could start wars if done incorrectly. And on that note," Coulson desperately wanted to get Clint out of his office so that he could have a chance to think. "Those three targets. Who do you want to go after first, and why?"

"Oh. Yeah. This guy." Clint held up a folder. "He's the most paranoid, it looks like, with all his security setups. Go after the other two first, he'll just retreat into someplace safe and I don't know how I'd be able to get to him after that."

"How do you want to take him out?"

"Rifle. Give me, say, a week to see how far out I can stay accurate and if I can push it any further, then find a good spot that'll be way far away from his bodyguards." Clint frowned slightly. "I think. I know that I don't have the same range with my bow, which really sucks. What other options do I have?"

"Poison, walking up to him in the street and shooting him that way, planting a bomb…" Coulson trailed off. "Nothing that would guarantee that you'd still be alive at the end."

"Um, yeah. Dying is not cool, sir. Same with getting hurt." Clint shook his head and stood up. "You wanna be left alone and angst some, I've got stuff to do, so I'm going to take this and work out more ideas." With a quirk of his lips as he opened the door, he added, "Becoming open book, you are to me. Oh yeah. Watching Star Wars Friday. Bring beer and dinner, 'cause I don't have the time after class and you know where to get all the good stuff." Tilting his head to one side, he finished, "and there's new coffee in the Mess Hall, too. Heard one of the kitchen workers saying that they needed to switch where they got it from because whoever was getting too expensive, what with the _gallons_ of it getting drunk every day. You may have gotten the first batch made."

* * *

"Explain, Clint." Coulson kicked Clint's door shut with his foot. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for the past _two days _and I'm still missing something."

Clint looked at Coulson blankly. "Explain what?"

"Wednesday – and that reminds me, I still have to yell at you – when you said that the coffee had been changed."

"Used my eyes. You said some stuff that you'd _never_ say and then looked kinda shocked and upset at the same time. Then you looked at your mug really suspiciously." Clint shrugged. "I spend a lot of time lurking, too, just trying to be observant and learn things. Heard one of the Mess Hall people talking…last week, I think, about how much was being spent on coffee. Figured out when resupply was, and just guessed from there." With a sly grin, he flopped onto his bed. "Gotta know what gets restocked when, because how else do I get the good stuff before most everybody else?"

"Clint," Coulson shook his head, "You are one of the most _complex_ people I've ever known, I'm coming to realize. While I do have some issues with the plan that you sent me about how you're going to take out these three, you went from needing to be talked through every step of the process to planning it all out on your own in less than a year. And yet, you need to be threatened in order for you to actually do things that are good for you."

"Good p-role model." Clint hoped that Coulson hadn't caught _that_ little slip. "And work brain and me brain. And right now my me brain is saying that it's dinner time, that box you're still holding smells really good, and I've already gotten the movie ready to go and my work brain is saying that I'm still a growing boy so feed me."

"Work brain and you brain?" Coulson responded to Clint's request by putting the food down. "Do I need to contact Psych about you having multiple personalities?" He dodged the pillow Clint threw at him. "World's greatest marksman, indeed." The second one hit him.

"Shut up and gimme food. Work brain to be totally serious about everything. Me brain 'cause it's…me. I'm not you, I can't work all the time. So my work brain doesn't think about if my latest music order is going to get to me in two months or three because the mail room here sucks or if that one food server is going to be giggling and winking in the breakfast line as soon as she sees me, and my me brain doesn't think about the fact that I'm going to go blow somebody's head off soon and spent an _hour_ today talking about sniper rifles and the best way to accommodate for potential issues in a city with the guys in the armory."

"Ah." Coulson nodded as he handed Clint a hamburger. "I've never heard it described that way before, but you're compartmentalizing. Good. And on a different note, do you want your present now or later?"

"Present?" Coulson smothered his grin at the tone of Clint's voice. "Now. You sing, I sing to the world about your love for Captain America."

"The horror, you actually being sociable." Coulson tossed an envelope at Clint. "Congratulations. Now you can stop breaking into Intel as much."

"Good practice," Clint said absentmindedly as he ripped the envelope open and pulled out a new ID badge and a few papers. "Cool." He kept reading. "Not cool. Sir, aren't I kinda, yanno, _young_ to be put in charge of something?"

"It's just helping with the new trainees a couple weekends a month when they're there. You're not going to be in a true leadership situation for another few years, so don't worry about that. Besides," Coulson handed Clint a bottle of beer. "It's good training and good for getting you out in some sort of public situation. It's orders from Fury, so no bitching. Incidentally, promotions won't be coming as quickly after this one."

"Meh," Clint shrugged. "Don't think about rank and security clearances much, except for when people get out of my way in the corridors and even then it's probably because I'm running. Least this isn't the military, 'cause I don't think that I could deal with people saluting. This is good, too, thanks."

"And at the rate that you're going to drink that one bottle, it also tastes good warm and flat." Coulson sat down in the desk chair, kicking his feet up on Clint's bed. "Now, were you planning on running your mouth all night or watching a movie?"


	37. Chapter 37

Enjoy. As usual, many thanks to Zara at TBB for catching my mistakes.

* * *

"Look. You're acting like your gun is going to jump up and bite you. It's just a thing; there are far more dangerous things around here."

"Like what?" Sitwell was starting to look frustrated. Clint couldn't blame him; they'd been at the range for an hour already and he'd hit the target maybe ten times.

"Like _me_." Clint leaned forward with a sharp smile. "And a lot of other _people_ here. Look, you wanna be a field agent, you need to realize that your targets aren't going to be pieces of paper, they're gonna be humans. Humans that are going to fight back, beg and plead with you, be messy in ways that we can't even dream of, and generally make it a lot harder to kill them than you'd want. The weapons are just _tools_, like a hammer or drill."

Straightening up, he shrugged and tried to look innocent. "Up to you what you make of them. At least, that's what I've heard. Personally, I think that the scientists are scary, especially when they start playing with explosives." He shuddered dramatically. "They have way too much fun with that shit."

"You're disturbing."

"Just repeating what I was told." Clint picked up the handgun and took a fast glance downrange before quickly firing off three shots. "Now, they say I'm a natural. Could be true, could be them blowing smoke. But I also practice, at _least_ an hour each day." Putting the gun down on the table, he nodded. "Try again."

As Sitwell visibly shoved his frustration back and picked up the gun, Clint stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. Sitwell had managed to make the math clear – there had to be a way for Clint to do the same. "Dammit!" He glanced downrange at Sitwell's curse.

"_Don't_ throw the gun." Clint quickly moved forward. "_Never_ throw a gun. You know what, I've got an idea. I'll be right back."

When he returned, Sitwell was still standing in the same position, glaring at the target. "You know, Barton, I'm beginning to rethink this."

"Nah." Clint shook his head. "You know all that book stuff, I know shooting. It's a fair trade." Quickly inserting a new clip into the gun, he held it out. "Six rounds in here. Try it."

Shaking his head, Sitwell pointed the gun downrange. Clint watched with satisfaction as it suddenly jerked. "What the hell, Barton?"

"Snap caps. You're flinching." Clint tilted his head to the side, trying to remember what the range workers and the article he'd read had said. "Your stance and grip're both good, you're just anticipating and jumping at the noise, recoil, whatever. So," he grinned, "I get to give you homework. Come down here and practice dry firing each day. Just, you know, 15 minutes or so." Quickly unloading the gun, he demonstrated. "See? I'm just pretending. And hell, everybody practices like this sometimes. If I'm really upset, I'll just spend some time dry firing before actually using ammo. Then my bow and whatever else. Because if my aim is off, even a little, then I get even more upset just like you are, and then it takes me _hours_ to get out of it. But this'll help you get used to the gun before you go start shooting with live ammo. If you can't keep things too steady, try balancing a penny behind the front sight. Read that that sort of thing helps."

"Why are you so focused on how well you shoot?" Sitwell shifted around to stare at Clint. "I was wondering."

Eyeing Sitwell, Clint shook his head. "I'm a shooter. An assassin. What happens if my ability to shoot, to kill, goes away? My luck, it'll be a street corner, begging for a buck. Coulson says that I don't want that to happen, because I wouldn't last long. _You_ don't manage as a field agent, you've still got science and computers. So yeah. Try just dry firing for a week, and next weekend we can see how you're doing." Spinning on his heel, Clint stalked off for his bow. He needed a familiar distraction.

Flopping onto his bed that night and grabbing for the remote, Clint stared at the ceiling. "Work it out, Barton. Be logical. You think that everybody's wrong. But if they're wrong, why are they so convinced that they're _right_?" Sitting up, he reached under his bed and pulled out a notebook. "So, the problem. Coulson says that I need to figure out how to act so that people don't think I'm going to snap. Coulson and Beeks say I'm scared of being sociable." Clint started scribbling down notes. "Beeks says that I'm too stuck on old history. Maybe, but I'm not convinced. I'll give him the trust thing, because I know that one and I'm _fine _with it. They both say that I push people away. I don't think it's pushing people away if I don't let them get close in the first place."

Clint glanced up at the TV as the next show started. "I wonder…" he mused, quickly changing channels. "Ugh. Hate that show." Tossing his pen down, he flopped backwards, hitting his head on the wall. "Ow! Dammit!" Blinking back the involuntary tears, Clint rolled onto his side and rubbed at the sore spot.

He suddenly found himself cursing more than the pain as things suddenly became clear. "Beeks was _right_, dammit, and so was Coulson and I've been making everything harder for myself for the past fucking _year_ and a _half_. But it's scary and I _can't_ deal with it. I don't _want_ to. Fuck _me_. And it's been over a year and aside from a couple assholes, nobody's done anything. Just wasting energy thinking that people will." Sitting up, he angrily threw his pen and notebook across the room. "I've been fucking fighting _myself_. Okay."

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. "It's not gonna stop right now, but you're gonna _make_ it work, Barton. You don't _have_ to let people in, and it'll make Coulson and Beeks happy if you go outside of your comfort zone and at least stick around places. Fuckers. Hate that they were right. So take your damn magazine and go eat dinner. You're no good to SHIELD if you're passing out from hunger." He paused, parsing over the last sentence. "Huh. I like that one."

* * *

Clint spotted Meg and Darla sitting together at a table when he went to find lunch on Monday, both women busy with something in their laps. Curious, he wandered over. "Whatcha doing?"

Meg held up one finger. "Three, four, five. Knitting, Clint."

"Knitting?"

"Everybody needs a hobby." Darla grinned at Clint. "For a couple biddies like us, that's knitting. Or crocheting, since I could never get the hang of using two pointed sticks to make stuff out of string."

"Huh." Clint sat down across from them and propped his chin on his hands. "What are you making?"

"Shawl." Darla held up…something. "I think. I may have forgotten an increase or ten. Meg's tried to teach me, but I'm a slow learner."

"We didn't realize that it was your birthday tomorrow until just the other day, so…here. Happy birthday." Meg firmly put her knitting needles down on the table before standing up and tugging a hat over Clint's head. Sitting back down, she nodded. "Good, it does fit. I hope you like the color. And I'm making a pair of socks for a friend from school."

Startled, Clint pulled the hat off and didn't know what to say: it was the exact same shade of purple that he'd worn in the circus. Doing the only thing he could think of, he slipped over the table and wrapped Meg in a tight hug. "Thanks." He missed the smug looks the nurses shot at each other. "How'd you know I liked purple?"

Meg gently patted Clint's back. "I used my incredible powers of investigation and asked Agent Coulson when I managed to run into him last week. Darla and I have also seen what you wear when you're not in uniform."

"My turn!" Darla held out a small package. "I'm slower at making things than Meg is, so I hope that you like this." As Clint released Meg and took the package, she whispered, "Hope I found the right ones."

"Right ones?" Clint curiously opened the package to find a stack of books. Recognizing the covers, he grinned again. "Lemme guess, Coulson too?"

"Mmm," Darla hummed. "I do seem to remember being told by somebody about a certain young man's love of a certain book and the same young man's need to learn the basics of some new languages. And since I was heading to Manhattan for the weekend, why not visit a bookstore or two?"

"Guess I gotta finish with the Russian, then, and figure out what some of these languages are." Clint sorted through the books. "Spanish?"

"Japanese, Arabic, and yes, Spanish." Darla nodded. "You're looking happy, by the way."

Clint slid back to his seat and shrugged. "Managed to knock some sense into my head about life. Coulson told me that I had to figure out how to stop running from things and to figure out how I want to come across here. I can't lie with him, Fury, Medical, and Psych, though, so I tried to figure that out. May have succeeded, but it's gonna be tough."

"You'd better not, mister." Darla warned. "Lying to us about if you're hurt or not will only mean that you're ultimately hurting yourself."

"Coulson said that I can't, so I won't." Clint sat up straight, stung. "I don't follow orders like that, I get in trouble. I don't want to see what he can come up with if he's _really_ angry."

"Oh, relax Clint," Meg said with a sideways glance at Darla. "She's just trying to reinforce the idea that hiding something big can mean longer recovery times and more time cooped up."

Slouching back down, Clint sighed. "Yeah, I know. I'm just tired of people always feeling the need to tell me what to do about _everything_. I've _been_ taking care of myself for years. So I don't know everything, I do know _some_."

"It's easy to forget things like that, and I'm sorry." Darla reached across the table and rested her hand on Clint's arm. "Your upbringing was unique. Now, what did you do over the weekend that was actually fun?"

"Confused Coulson." Clint grinned. "Watched Star Wars and just relaxed since I didn't have to do anything for school. Lots of time on the range; I'm helping a scientist out with his shooting and he's helping me out with school stuff. Sunday movie night, even though the movie sucked." He glanced up to see Coulson standing behind the nurses and sat up. "Heya, sir. Do we have permission to go?"

"Anytime." Coulson nodded. "Ladies. Clint, when did you want to leave, then?"

"Wednesday. My biggest concern now is the environment and tracking this guy, avoiding his security and the local police. And I've a test tomorrow." Standing up, Clint nodded at the two nurses. "Thanks again for the hat and the books. They're awesome."

Meg twisted around to watch the two men walk away. "Interesting. Haven't seen somebody able to flip a switch that fast in years. Especially somebody so young. I wonder if more people should go work in public entertainment, if it's that effective."

"Just without the petty thievery and various and sundry other issues?" Darla arched an eyebrow. "Okay, help me out here. Can I fix this, or should I just rip it all out and start over?"

* * *

"So, why today and not Friday? You do have classes." Coulson glanced out of the corner of his eye at Clint about halfway through their flight.

Clint shrugged in response. "Not doing anything big at school outside of a test yesterday and I'm actually ahead still. It's kinda boring." Lightly kicking at his backpack, he added, "Sitwell's really helped with the math."

"And you do have the brainpower, so part of me isn't surprised that you're getting bored. Are you helping him with his shooting?" Coulson looked back down at the file in his lap. "I heard that you were on the range for a while Saturday."

"Yeah. He flinches and I think he's kinda scared of the gun." Standing up, Clint started to pace. "He didn't need my help for that; he just needed to talk to a rangemaster. Think I'm getting the better end of the deal."

"Clint, would you sit down? You're making me dizzy."

Lying on the floor, Clint lightly kicked Coulson's foot. "And you were right, sir. As usual. So was Beeks, but he's also wrong."

"About?" Coulson put the folder down and looked at Clint curiously.

"That I run away." Clint glanced up at the cockpit before looking back at Coulson. "But yeah. I know that I've got stuff to work on, and I don't think that it'll be 'fixed' like Beeks says it needs to be but gimme some time and patience and I know that everything'll be better?"

"Why don't you think things need fixing?"

"Because," Clint sat up. "What Beeks seems to want to do would make me not _me_. And you all wanted me to come work here because of who I was, even though nobody realized how messed up I could be sometimes. Even me. I thought it through though, and I am who I am. I've _been_ this way for years. I've also observed some of the seniors at school and they're not acting like the way Beeks said he wants me to, and I don't think I _can_. Even if I wanted to. I just want to make it so that I can do my job. _All_ of it, whatever that means, 'cause it's what's best for SHIELD."

"My God, he's put it all together." Coulson leaned forward and lightly rapped Clint on the head with the file. "And in less than two years, too. Nobody predicted that."

"Predicted what." Clint's voice was flat and suspicious.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Coulson smirked. "Agent Sitwell. His suitability as a field agent?"

"Like I said. He's scared of shooting, probably could use some more time running and learning how to fight, but he's got some good points. He could be a lot like you one day." Clint was still eying Coulson suspiciously. "Predicted what, _sir_."

"Getting you to use your brain." Coulson nodded. "And you've been programmed, Clint, almost like a computer. Every meeting with Psych, every conversation we've had about SHIELD and working here, how you've been trained has been devoted to putting your head in the right place." Leaning forward, he snapped his fingers in front of Clint's face. Catching the archer's gaze and leaving one finger raised, Coulson finished, "SHIELD. First. Questions?"

Clint blinked thoughtfully. "No?"

"What is SHIELD?"

"Home." Coulson could tell that Clint was startled by his response. "Can we talk about something else now? This is getting a little weird."

"Sure." Coulson leaned back, not taking his eyes off Clint's face. "Although you might forget most of it. I know I've mentioned this sort of thing in the past, and I don't doubt that it will come up again in the future. Problems with that?"

Clint convulsively shook his head. "Whatever. I don't think I really care."

"Good." Coulson went back to reading. "What are your plans for finding your target?"

"He's got patterns, even if they're hard to see. Just need to figure out where he's at in his routine." Clint slowly lay back down and closed his eyes. "Just, just gotta," he yawned. "Use my eyes."

* * *

Coulson and the man driving the car couldn't hold back their laughs at Clint's soft "should've brought a different shirt. And that's not funny, either."

"Why do you say you need different clothes?" Coulson twisted slightly in his seat.

Clint gestured outside with a frustrated look. "I have a t-shirt. Body armor. Cargo pants. Boots. My tac-vest. I've seen one person wearing a t-shirt, and that was a little kid. Some of the teenagers are wearing cargo pants, so that's not a problem, but all the men have nicer shirts on. I'm not even going to think about how I'll get around with my gear yet." He kept staring out the window. "Pull over. I'll be right back." He slipped out the door as the car stopped and vanished down an alley.

"Have you been practicing vanishing like that?" Coulson idly asked when he saw Clint reappear. "And I hope you weren't seen stealing clothes."

"Left five…whatever…on the clothesline." Clint settled back in his seat. "And yeah, I've been practicing blending in. Mostly in the labs, but I've also bounced through Medical and the command deck. Think Fury figured it out one day, but he didn't say anything."

"What were you doing on the command deck?" Coulson didn't know if he approved of what Clint had been doing. "Please don't tell me anything important."

"Nah. Security sometimes, then other days running search programs on a computer. Nothing major." Clint grinned. "It's kinda cool, not having to wear identification when I'm in uniform, even if their uniforms _suck_. Who designed them?"

"Somebody who liked bodysuits, I'm guessing. They first came out in the sixties, and I think it was the big fashion then. But seeing as how I don't remember that era, I wouldn't know for certain."

"Huh." Clint fell quiet for the rest of the drive. As he followed Coulson into the apartment, he headed straight to the window and took a fast look outside. "Gonna go for a walk." Pulling out a radio, he quickly slipped the earpiece in and adjusted the microphone. "Where's the map?"

"Teach a man to fish," Coulson murmured to himself. "Did you lose it already?"

"No. I just…can't find it." Clint headed for the door. "I'm gonna go to that big market that was a few minutes away. I'll bring food back. I think. If I can identify it."

* * *

Clint shifted slightly on his perch, trying to get comfortable. All thoughts of discomfort went out of his head when he spotted his target's bodyguards outside the door of the restaurant, and he stilled, index finger slowly curling around the trigger and taking up the slack. Slowing his breathing, Clint ignored everything but what he was able to see through his scope.

"Come on," he breathed. "Come on…"

It was reflex now, that when he saw his target he shot. As the man stepped into view, Clint bared his teeth in a feral grin. "Goodbye." He finished squeezing the trigger. Not moving, he allowed himself a victorious hiss when his guess about where the target was heading was right, and the man dropped from view as his bodyguards started to frantically move around.

He had thought that he was far enough away to avoid possible counter-snipers and surveillance, but as he scooted back and climbed to his knees, the sound of sirens made him glance around hurriedly. The sirens masked other sounds, and Clint couldn't hold back his scream as pain blossomed across his chest and he suddenly felt like every last bit of air in his lungs had been forced out.

"Barton, status." Coulson's voice was dim, and Clint couldn't get the air to respond. "_Clint_." Clint found that he couldn't focus on anything but the fact that he _hurt_ and tried to curl up in a ball, which only made everything worse. Vision greying out, the last thing that Clint was aware of was people running towards him and the realization that it was becoming very, very hard to breathe.

The short scream over the radio had Coulson bolting for the door. "Barton, status. _Clint_. Talk to me." Cursing, he stopped before making it to the stairs and reluctantly turned around, firmly shutting the door behind him. Controlling his breathing, he coldly listened as the police found Clint and called for an ambulance. Carelessly throwing everything into bags, he heard the discovery of Clint's radio and quickly changed channels on his. "Coulson. Urgent extraction needed, one agent compromised."

"Phil," Fury's voice surprised Coulson. "What happened."

"Police have Barton. I suspect that he was injured; they were calling for an ambulance when they found his radio. I'm on my way to start smoothing everything over, but we're going to need a medical extraction." Coulson rubbed at his face. "Everything in the safe house is ready to go sir, and I'm going to go make contact with the local CIA outpost. Hourly checks as usual, but I'll be off-radio. If you can get people scanning the city, that'd be appreciated as well."

"Copy. Good hunting, Phil."

Coulson tossed the radio into a bag and darted for the door. _Somehow_ a taxi was passing by and he quickly flagged it down, pulling out a large bill and a piece of paper. "This address. Quickly please, I'm late for a meeting." He stared out the window, quickly putting together what he was going to tell people. As the taxi pulled up to the door, he passed over the money and climbed out, banging on the front door. "Phil Coulson, I need to speak to your superior, please. It's a matter of some delicacy." He held out his ID.

The guard nodded, opening the door wider and Coulson allowed a grim smile to slip out. "Thank you."

"Phil?" Coulson allowed himself to relax slightly when he recognized the voice. "I didn't know you were in the area."

"Sorry, I don't have the time to chat today." Coulson glanced around. "Somebody's in trouble with the locals and is probably injured."

The man stopped. "Shit Phil, what happened?"

"Not now," Coulson snapped. "I need to talk to your boss, I know she's here. Now."

After he was shown into a small office, Coulson glanced around before sitting down. "Eve. I've got a problem, and I need your help. We were here to take out a big player and my guy was caught. I need to find out where they took him and get him released from police custody."

"Just one? Why not go in yourself?" Eve stared at Coulson levelly. "SHIELD has the resources."

"Because I know that he's in a hospital and injured. I don't know how badly, and it's only blind faith that tells me that he's even _alive_." Coulson leaned forward. "Eve, I wouldn't be here if I didn't need your help. You have the contacts and better knowledge of this place and how everything works than I do. If you want to help me get a _kid_ out of a bad situation, perfect. If you don't, then I'm going to call in a favor."

"Oh, for the love of…" Eve sat back. "How bad could it be?"

"He wakes up in a hospital tied down to a bed, there's going to be a lot more than a dead player to worry about. He has the knowledge to take down buildings and to get out of that sort of situation he _will_. Get him out of there before he's awake, your life will be easier." Coulson waved one hand towards the door, hoping that he wouldn't be called on his lie about Clint's abilities. "This isn't a high-class city, Eve; this is just a…hive of scum and villainy. If this was someplace nicer, then I'd be working other circles and leaving the CIA out of it all. This is one situation that's extremely time sensitive and I _know_ you've got the resources that I don't already in place."

"Star Wars, Phil? Didn't think you liked that sort of thing."

"Clint's a fan." Coulson allowed himself a wry smile. "He's the asset I need to get out."

"Replacing me already? I thought we had a thing." Eve bent over and sorted through a drawer. Tossing things onto her desk, she laughed. "Since when did you have assets, Phil? I thought you were classified as somebody else's asset."

"I was never given that classification. I was promoted, for my sins, and as part of that was handed a new recruit that needed to be housebroken and trained to do everything." Coulson shook his head. "Please, Eve. I'm not exaggerating when I say that he _has_ to be in SHIELD's hands, or at the very least _not_ in police custody. I'm calling in a favor so would you stop stalling?"

"Save your favor, Phil. I want to meet this guy that's got you freaking out, though."

"Maybe." Coulson followed Eve to the door.

"Okay. Where was your man?" Eve pointed at a couple people. "You two, we've got a guy to find. Phil here will tell you everything."

"After I make a phone call," Coulson said and pulled a map out of his pocket. "Here's what he'd planned."


	38. Chapter 38

Promised this would be out by Tuesday...Thanks to Zara at TBB!

* * *

Clint woke up and immediately panicked. He couldn't move, couldn't see, and the last thing he remembered was pain. Realizing that the reason he couldn't move was that he was tied down only increased his panic and he started to jerk against the restraints, gasping against the tightness in his chest. The pain he was feeling increased with every breath he took.

"Clint." He didn't recognize the voice. "I need you to calm down. You're on the Helicarrier, in Medical. You were shot; your body armor took most of it but it was still bad enough. Open your eyes, Clint." The voice yawned. "Dammit, Barton, when you open your eyes and talk to me the doctor says that the restraints can be taken off."

When a hand firmly squeezed his shoulder, Clint was able to finally place the voice and some of the sounds. Opening his eyes, he immediately closed them again and moaned.

Coulson swore. "Sorry. Lights aren't as bright. Try again, Clint."

This time, it didn't hurt and Clint felt some of the panic receding. He tried to say something, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Licking his lips, he tried again. "Owww." He tried to move his arm. "Out." He was suddenly aware of the oxygen mask on his face and wrinkled his nose at the smell.

"Are you awake now?"

Clint nodded. "'M up." Swallowing, he closed his eyes again. "Tired." Feeling his hands become free, he tried to roll over and had to bite back his scream when it felt like somebody was shoving one of his arrows into his chest – slowly.

"Stay on your back, Clint, and keep your eyes open. It'll help you wake up, although it sounds like you just finished burning off the last of the sedatives and painkillers with that move." Coulson gently patted the archer's shoulder. "You've been asleep for a few days now, and they just took the breathing tube out a little bit ago. Why you were in restraints; you kept on trying to pull it and the chest tube out and were fighting everybody. Can you tell me what happened?"

"No?" Clint breathed out, worried. Between his throat and his chest it hurt too much to say a lot, and he glanced over at Coulson pleadingly. "You? _Hurts_." He suddenly realized that there was something in his chest and tried not to panic.

"Doctor's on his way. Doing good, Clint. You got him, even though they got you, too." Coulson yawned. "Thank you for calming down, and breathe some. It may help."

"'Kay." Clint muttered as he suppressed a whimper, shoving his pain back. "Ow."

"You're surprising lucid for somebody who was shot and then kept sedated for the past three days, Agent Barton. Where does it hurt?" Clint just tried to lift a hand and made a face when he couldn't get it up very far. "Chest and throat?"

"Tons." Clint slowly nodded. Staring at the doctor, he asked, "Sit up? More?"

"Of course. I just don't want you lying flat yet." the doctor slowly raised the head of the bed more. "Better?"

Carefully taking a breath, Clint nodded. "Bit."

"So, in a nutshell, lucky must be your middle name." Doctor James pulled over a stool and sat down, staring at Clint. "I just wanted to say that. Any questions for me?"

"No." It was easier to breath, but that didn't mean that it didn't still hurt. Clint clenched his jaw and leaned his head back as he watched the doctor and Coulson out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay. Think you can try to remember a few things?" At Clint's careful nod, the doctor gave him a grim smile. "Good. So you'll be our guest for a few more days, just until I'm sure that you're not going to keel over and undo all sorts of careful work of mine and that the treatments are working. Broken ribs and a collapsed lung aren't the same as a knife through your arm or a few bruises; you'll be feeling this one for a while. And worship the makers of your bulletproof vest – without it you wouldn't be here. Even _with_ it you very nearly weren't."

"Oh," Clint breathed, and then tilted his head to the side. "Out?"

"Nope. Maybe tomorrow you can come out in a wheelchair, but I don't want you up on your own just yet, at least not until we're sure that you won't fall flat on your face. Head can take it, ribs, not so much. Especially since it doesn't seem like you completely understand what I'm telling you. So," the doctor stood up and pulled on a pair of gloves. "I just want to check a few things, now that you're awake. I think Darla found you some ice cream to eat, too, so the faster the better, right? And she has some more painkillers for you."

Clint felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "Like Darla."

"Good. Because Darla likes you." The nurse held out a cup. Clint hadn't realized that she was in the room and his startled twitch made him hiss in pain. "Can you hold this? On second thought, no. And Agent Coulson, go away, please. Might I suggest taking a nap in your own bed?" As Coulson nodded and left the room, she leaned over and whispered in Clint's ear, "Going to have to do all sorts of things to you, some of them very embarrassing, so be patient with us and know that once we're done, you'll feel a lot better."

"Huh?" Clint eyed the nurse, suddenly feeling wary as he watched her put something into his IV. His pain dropping from practically excruciating to simply high told him that it was a painkiller and he relaxed slightly, which helped even more.

"Making you feel more comfortable. After that, you can have that ice cream, and then we're going to make you go back to sleep." Gently smoothing Clint's hair back, Darla nodded. "We were a little worried about you. Gave us a couple good scares."

"Huh?" He winced as Darla took Coulson's chair and suddenly jerked the blankets down to his waist, pulling off what felt like miles of tape. "Ow."

"This was a total hack job," she muttered. "Doctor, I'm not comfortable with leaving this in any longer. It looks like it's thinking about getting infected." She glanced at Clint's face. "I'll explain everything later dear. Right now, though, I want to get this stuff done with, okay?"

Clint nodded as he watched Doctor James lean over her shoulder. "Yeah, let's pull it. Lungs sound better, and the x-ray looked decent."

"What?" Clint glanced nervously between the two as they changed positions.

"Those broken ribs ended up making air and blood go into the wrong part of your chest, so the hospital you were taken to put in what's called a chest tube, to get it all out. We're going to take it out now, so I want you to take this hand and put it up over your head like this, and then hold your breath when I tell you to." Doctor James demonstrated, watching with a frown as Clint tried to obey. "Okay then. Darla, go grab another set of hands."

"Nah, we can do it." Darla helped Clint raise his arm. "Lean back, and there." Patting his leg, she moved away from the bed and tossed a couple packages on top of Clint's lap. "Good to go."

"Thanks." Doctor James sat down and Clint felt the tugging of stitches being removed. "Okay, Clint, deep breath, as deep as you can, and hold it." When Clint obeyed, biting his lip against the pain, he suddenly felt a pulling sensation that practically ran up to his shoulder. "Doing good, keep holding that breath, and there. Cough twice." He pressed his hands against Clint's side.

"Ow." Clint coughed as ordered and felt a smile come out as he felt the sudden absence of part of his discomfort. "Better." Taking a careful breath, he relaxed even more. "Ice cream?"

"Very end," Darla said. "Anything else, Doctor?"

"No, you know everything else that needs to be done. Clint, hope you feel better and I'll be back later." The doctor patted Clint's leg and headed out of the room.

"What else?" Clint asked, suddenly feeling worried when Darla gave him a wicked smile.

"Little things to make you more comfortable and that would make all the girls here green with envy were I closer to your age, like a bath. Actually, they _are_ jealous, because only Meg and I are taking care of you and we don't let them in." Sliding the tray table closer to the bed, she laughed at the betrayed look Clint gave her and gently adjusted the oxygen mask on his face. "You can help me out this time. It's just part of being a nurse and being a patient, and by the time I'm done you'll feel a lot better and back on the road to getting all that lovely privacy back. You aren't the first young man to end up in Medical's clutches, my dear; we all know how to keep our mouths shut. Also want to show you a couple things that'll help with breathing."

"Don't like," Clint paused to take another breath. He doubted that he'd take the whole idea of being able to breathe and talk for granted again. "Getting shot. Hurts. _Embarrassing_."

"Could be worse. Tell me how this water feels, and you can start on your face." Darla looked critically at Clint. "That's probably all you'll be up for, so just listen while you scrub." She ignored his glare as she calmly adjusted the blankets. "I'm not seeing you washing your face, young man. Save the outrage for later, when I've had a chance to explain exactly what we did and why. I suspect you'll thank me instead."

* * *

"So?" Meg glanced at Darla expectantly that evening. "Did he wake up?"

"Right on schedule, and we pulled everything but the IV, told him what happened. I'm not sure that he fully understands what happened, so we're probably going to be answering a lot of questions." Darla stretched. "Doctor James was just here and he kicked Agent Coulson out to get something to eat and a nap in something other than a chair. I'm still trying to figure out the relationship between him and Clint."

"It's one part familial, one part educational, one part work, and incredibly fun to watch." Meg didn't try to cover her smile. "I think that they've both come to realize that, but neither of them has gone so far to admit it to anybody, including themselves. Well, no. Clint's mumbled about it a couple times, but that's about it. What else? It's teriyaki for dinner, so let's make it quick so you can still get it while it's still hot."

Darla pulled a binder towards her and flipped it open. "I do remember hearing something about that the last time he spent the night, but he was also talking through dehydration so I wasn't completely sure. However. Right now, he's asleep and his meds have been keeping him that way. Where that quack put in the chest tube may be getting infected, so Doctor James upped his antibiotics. Everything else is basic Clint orders, although Doctor James did say no letting Psych waylay him in here this time. I think between you and I we can keep Beeks away until Clint's up to picking at scabs again. Made him help me with his bath this morning. He was properly outraged by it all, at least until he fell asleep. I did have a question, though." Leaning back in her chair, she frowned. "You've never gotten this involved in the past."

"I could say the same thing about you," Meg said, shaking her head. "But there's something _different_ about him. Everybody else in the past has always been so…_angry_, it seems, and Clint isn't. He really just needs some solid attachments to help him finish growing up. I think that after him, though, I'm not going to do this anymore. I've probably gotten too involved this time, and frankly, I can't find it in me to care."

"Point. And I'm actually starting to agree with you; I've never gone hunting for a birthday present as much as I did for his. Not even for you." Standing up, Darla beckoned to Meg. "But, anyways, you do have to see this. Coulson has a key to Clint's quarters and, well…"

Meg couldn't hold back her pleased laugh at the sight. "I'd heard something about that! I wasn't sure that it was completely true, but oh, to be a fly on the wall when Clint finds out what Coulson did!"

"He'll say 'thanks boss, next time I want the _purple_ one.'" Coulson was leaning tiredly against the wall. "Because that is what he said less than an hour ago, although not quite as smoothly or clearly. When he's not under the influence of whatever you are giving him, he'll probably say something along the lines of 'sir, any of this gets out, I don't care who talks, _you_ will pay.' To that end, please don't allow anybody else in until he's fully awake."

"Agent Coulson." Darla turned around. "Why didn't you tell me that Clint had woken up?"

Coulson ignored her tone. "He didn't."

Meg ignored the developing argument as she slipped into Clint's room. Silencing the alarm going off, she smiled sadly as she clipped the probe back on his finger and adjusted the oxygen mask on his face. "Poor boy," she whispered. "Let's get you comfortable again." Pulling her stethoscope out, she listened to his chest with a small frown. "Sorry. I know that you're sore," she automatically apologized as he whimpered slightly. "I have your meds right here."

Gently straightening the blankets, Meg stroked Clint's head as she moved his stuffed bear to his good side. His arm came up, and Meg watched, curiously, as tension that she hadn't even realized was there left his body as he hugged the toy close and pressed his head into her hand with a small sigh. "Oh, Clint." She shook her head. "I wish I could go back in time and make everything _right_."

"Well?" Startled, Meg glanced up.

"He's got good air moving, and all I'm going to do for him tonight is to keep on making sure that he's comfortable. If he wakes up, see how he feels about eating. Much better than last night, that's for sure. I just gave him something for pain." Meg stared at Coulson. "I do want you to tell me if he does anything other than sleep quietly, however. Understood?"

She wasn't fooled by Coulson's meek nod. "I'll let you know."

"Me nurse, you not, so you follow my orders when it comes to what happens here." Meg watched as Coulson sat down and spread some papers across the tray table. "And you're a damn fool," she muttered. "Let me get you a pillow since you should get some sleep. I don't suppose I can convince you to get a real night's rest in your own bed?"

"He doesn't like waking up here alone. He hasn't told me why, but I suspect that it has to do with something in the past. Somebody here that he trusts, even a little, allows him to actually wake up and not panic, or so he has said." Coulson yawned before pointing at the bear. "_That's_ a stop-gap measure that I gave him a little bit ago to help him calm down after nightmares. Surprisingly, he has said that it works, but real people are preferable. And really, I don't see any reason why I can't simply do some work in here."

"Because maybe we get frustrated with people being underfoot?" Meg pursed her lips. "Look. You promise to not move in and to take care of yourself, and Darla or I will stay with him when you're gone. It isn't like there's a shortage of nurses here; we can call in an extra set of hands so that if we need to stay in here, we can."

Surprised, Coulson nodded. "Agreed. Although why only you two? I know that you don't normally do this sort of thing."

"We're the best qualified," Meg cheerfully lied with a glance down at Clint. "And we volunteered, since Clint talks to us. It wouldn't be fair to him to make him deal with anybody else if he doesn't have to. Actually, if anybody does call in asking about Clint, what should we tell them? There's an Agent Sitwell, I think, that's called a couple times."

"Him." Coulson shook his head. "I'll deal with it. He's been helping Clint with some schoolwork. Next question. Why don't you have Psych on that list?"

"After the past couple interactions Clint has had with Doctor Beeks, the order is to keep the two of them far, far apart until _Clint's_ ready and says so or he's discharged, whichever comes first." Meg frowned and glanced down at the bed as, when she moved her hand, Clint attempted to follow with a small whine. "Sorry, dear. Goal number one is wholly physical: get those ribs healed and make sure that he doesn't have any problems breathing. Goal number two is everything else."

"Final question. Why are you petting his head?"

"He likes it, and I'm not _petting_. He's not a dog. Besides, touch can be healing, relaxing, and it helps with pain management." Meg raised her eyebrows. "I saw you the last few nights, too; no matter how you were sitting you were in physical contact. Usually your feet against his leg, so care to explain that?"

"Nightmares." Coulson gave Meg a small shrug.

Meg hummed skeptically as she turned and headed for the door. "His or yours?"

* * *

Coulson woke with a start, hearing raised voices from the hall. Glancing over at Clint, he realized that the younger man was awake and looking wary. "Who do you want to let in here, besides Doctor James and the nurses?"

"Just you." Clint squeezed his eyes shut and Coulson watched as he took a careful breath. "Ow."

"Okay. I'll go make people be quiet. Need anything?" Coulson carefully lowered his feet and stood up, not trying to hide his yawn.

"Food?" Clint had a hopeful look on his face. "My bed?"

"Think this one _is_ yours now." Coulson immediately regretted his quip when he saw Clint wince and grab at his chest as he wheezed out a laugh. "Sorry. I'll go see which one of your two nannies is on duty right now."

He sighed as he saw the standoff occurring at the nurses' desk. "You two happen to be making it very hard to sleep. Aren't there any other patients here?"

"Yes. There are. This is why you, Doctor, need to be quiet and understand that what you're asking simply isn't possible right now."

"Not that I feel any particular urge to interfere in this department, but…" Coulson trailed off as he watched the woman stomp off. "Clint's awake and looking for something to eat and more painkillers."

"Good!" Darla pushed herself out of her chair. "Let me go tell everybody else that it's safe to come out now, and I'll go get his breakfast. You go eat your own breakfast and shower. I'll visit with my favorite troublemaker."

"_No bath_." Were the first words out of Clint's mouth when he saw Darla enter with a tray. The nurse just chuckled lightly at the mulish expression on his face. "I can. I'm an adult."

"Technically. The jury's still out on mentally," Darla said with a wry grin as she glanced over the tray table and placed the tray on top of the papers sitting there. When Clint laughed and then winced, she shook her head. "Sorry. But look on the bright side, you're up to four syllables at once, which is definitely an improvement over yesterday. Let me show you a couple things again though, since it doesn't look like you remember much." With a smirk, she pointed at the bed. "Good use for your teddy bear, too."

"Damn Coulson," Clint muttered as he started to shove the toy under the blankets, only to have his hand caught. "Leggo?"

"Clint." Clint couldn't figure out the look on Darla's face. Part exasperation, part amusement, and part something else. "Relax. I swore an oath to not say anything to people who don't need to know. Right now that's me and Meg, because we're your nurses. _Nobody_ else needs to know." Not letting go of his wrist, Darla sat down on the bed and calmly looked Clint straight in the eye. "Does it help?"

"Sometimes." Clint shifted slightly. "I get bad dreams."

"So what's the problem then?" Darla let go of his wrist and tapped Clint's nose. "Want to know a secret? I had a stuffed horse that I would occasionally sleep with until I was 40, because sometimes you just need to. 22 is still very young, and yes, I know that you've been on your own a while so don't use that argument with me anymore. Don't be afraid to show how you're feeling or act your age; it's expected and part of growing up. But Meg and I are here for you, understand?"

"Yeah. Breakfast? Meds?" Clint looked pleadingly at the nurse. "Talk later?"

"Of course." Darla held out a controller. "So, you get to be in charge of your pain meds. If it isn't helping let us know, but you don't get to sleep the day away again." Reaching out, she pulled the tray table close as Clint curiously looked over the controller and pushed the button on top. "And for breakfast, you get a protein shake, juice, and some yogurt. If you don't have any problems with that, you can have the full menu at lunch. When Doctor James comes in you can ask about getting out of bed. We're also going to start you on a few things that will help you heal up faster. A couple downsides to them: it'll hurt a bit, and you're going to be eating more than you ever thought you could. But realize that we really do know what we're doing. Work with us, and you'll probably be able to get out of here in a couple days."

Clint only halfway listened as he grabbed at a glass and decided that apple juice was probably the best thing he'd ever tasted. "'Kay." A thought hit him and he looked at the nurse. "You owe me ice cream."

His eyes narrowed as Darla burst out laughing. "Oh, Clint. Don't ever change."

* * *

"Ugh," Clint panted as he gingerly leaned back in his chair. "Never knew that breathing could be so _hard_."

"With what happened? Certainly won't be _easy_," the therapist shook his head. "C'mon Barton, five more and then you're done for this session. Going to school today?"

"You said that already," Clint retorted as he reached for the pile of balloons. "And yeah. Coulson's going to help me out." Critically eyeing the balloon in his hand, he tilted his head to one side. "Think I can learn how to make balloon animals, too?"

"Another time. One more, and I see Agent Coulson hovering. We're running behind this morning, so how do you feel about taking some extra time tonight?"

Clint glared at him, busy trying to blow up the balloon. Giving up, he shook his head. "About," he shifted, carefully pressing his arm to his bad side, "About as good as not remembering getting shot in the first place."

"Excellent. See you tonight. Don't forget about those noon exercises, and here, see if you can do three at lunch and one between each class." The therapist grinned wickedly as he tucked some balloons into Clint's shirt pocket. "Agent Coulson."

"Rob," Coulson nodded. "C'mon Clint, let's see how today goes."

Clint carefully stood up. "Yeah. You're looking kinda…casual, sir."

"Spending the day on a college campus, I'd certainly hope so. Have everything?" Coulson calmly picked up Clint's backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

"Hope so. Painkillers, books, note from Doctor James. Homework."

"Balloons." Coulson didn't hide his grin at the look on Clint's face as they headed for the Quinjet. "This just gives you another incentive to not get hurt; the physical therapists can come up with some of the most creative methods of rehabilitation. Especially since you refuse to use that spirometer that the nurses gave you as much as they say you should."

"Boring," Clint muttered. "And too noisy and I don't want to carry it around with me all day. I'm still using it in the morning and at night."

"Right." Coulson lifted a hand to pat Clint on the shoulder, paused, and then ruffled Clint's hair. "One good thing about all this, though. I can see how you're doing with your school cover."

"'M doing fine with it." Clint lowered himself into a seat. "It's everybody _else_ that's causing problems."

* * *

"Mister Barton!" The exclamation had Clint pausing in the doorway as he was suddenly the focus of the entire class. "We were wondering where you were!"

"Sorry, Professor. Car accident, and was in the hospital. I have a note from the doctor." Turning for his bag, he was surprised to see Coulson shaking his head. "Um?"

"Your mother would be very upset if I didn't keep an eye on you," Coulson said mildly as people covered grins. "I'd really rather not sleep on the couch. Same with your physical therapist, not that there's much that Rob could do to _me_."

Clint rolled his eyes as he made his way to an open desk and sat down. Part of him wondered if Coulson had practiced a few lines to make everything sound natural, another part of him wondered if he'd ever be able to sound so calm and in control, and a third part of him wondered if it would have simply been easier to take the rest of the week off from school. With a small shake of his head, he gave Coulson a grin as his book was held out and tried to get comfortable for the rest of class.

"Rob and the doctor both gave me firm instructions, too," Coulson said as the two watched the professor make his way over at the end of class. "No leaving you alone for the rest of the week unless you're at home." Reaching over, he pulled a balloon out of Clint's pocket. "I'll talk, you follow orders."

"Can I not and say that I did?" Coulson just gave him a look in response. "This is the real reason why Rob said that you had to stay with me."

"Yep. And it's working; you've been talking more today than you have been since you woke up." Standing up, Coulson held out one hand. "Phil. Nice to meet you, Professor Voss. I'm not hearing anything, Clint."

"Nag," Clint muttered.

"Your mother isn't here, so I get to. Besides, you want to get back to having fun, you need to be able to breathe, right?"

Clint was feeling tired as the two men approached his Psych class. "Probably," he started, and then took a careful breath.

"Probably should've waited a couple more days?" Coulson nodded. "I am not the correct person to ask. Do you think you can make it through this class, though?"

"Yeah," Clint breathed out carefully. "Just have to remember to keep my head down. And you gotta stay quiet."

"Ah, yes. This one." Coulson nodded as he held out Clint's painkillers and a bottle of water. "Should I be worried?"

"Nah. All talk." Clint shook his head. "Just a pain." Pausing before opening the door, he took a careful breath and let it out slowly. "Okay."

"Mister Barton. This isn't an open house, and where have you been?" Clint mentally rolled his eyes.

"Car accident, Doctor Davis. Can't drive."

"Well, whoever he is will have to wait outside. I don't allow guests in my class." Doctor Davis stared at Coulson. "Out."

"Ah, Doctor Davis, I'm sorry, but that won't be possible." Coulson dropped Clint's backpack next to a chair. "Doctor's orders, unfortunately. And mother's. Clint's already made his opinion known about all this. Clint, here?"

"Back," Clint nodded at his usual seat in the back corner. "Sorry, Doctor Davis." He was aware of Coulson hovering, and had to suppress his instinct to turn and tell the other man off. Coulson didn't do anything without a reason, and Clint had to hope that he wouldn't make things too difficult.

Coulson didn't see an open seat that was out of the way, so he sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. He pulled some papers and a pen from his pocket as the professor resumed lecturing and carefully skimmed what he'd already written. This was undoubtedly one of the harder things that he'd done, also one of the strangest. And after being at SHIELD for almost ten years, Coulson thought that he'd seen more than a few strange things.

But, two different members of Psych and the nurses that were following Clint around like ducklings had all said that it would be, without a doubt, one of the best things for him to do. Especially considering the sort of lives that he and Clint led. Suppressing a sigh – he really _was_ too young for this – Coulson started writing. When Fury had found out what he was doing the laughter had echoed through the hallway outside the Director's office…but then the stare came back and Fury's orders echoed through Coulson's brain. "Do it. And do it _well_, Agent Coulson; don't leave a single thing out. Make the boy _cry_ when he reads it, even if he's 90 and stuck in a wheelchair."

The sounds of people moving had Coulson glancing up and hurriedly tucking the papers away. He frowned, seeing the set of Clint's shoulders and the way that the archer was carefully bracing his arm against his side. "Clint," he said as he moved to an empty seat. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Clint gritted his teeth. "'M fine."

Coulson let the wry smile emerge. "Remember, we're working with my definition of fine. Not yours. Did you take the full dose of your painkiller?" When Clint shook his head slightly Coulson didn't try to hide his exasperation. "Remember what Meg, Rob, _and_ Doctor James all said. If you're hurting, you're not healing. They worked out dosages and," he paused, glancing up. "Can I help you?"

"Car accident?" The skeptical tone told Coulson that Clint really hadn't been exaggerating. The next words confirmed it. "Nothing else?"

"Would a lie, such as him getting shot in the chest, be more to your liking? I've heard what Clint's said about this class, and I'm still trying to decide the best course of action for him to take since he's said that nothing's improved." Coulson kept his tone mild. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that Clint actually _takes_ his medicine. He'll be fine, thank you for asking." Lifting Clint's chin, Coulson frowned. "How much did you take?" Clint just lifted a shoulder in response. "Okay. Actually take it all this time and then we'll head home. Wait until everything's kicked in to do your noon exercises."

Clint nodded slightly and swallowed the pills Coulson handed him dry. Closing his eyes and carefully regulating his breathing, he was aware of two sets of eyes on him. "I _like_ my definition of fine. It works." Pausing to catch his breath, he shook his head faintly. "Four broken or cracked ribs, Doctor Davis. Everybody at the hospital said I was," he winced as he coughed slightly. "I was lucky. I'm not dead. Should've seen my bruises."

"Ah." Clint thought he actually heard some sympathy in the professor's voice. "Do you have a note?"

Clint felt Coulson dig in the cargo pocket of his pants and pull something out. "Here." A sigh, and Clint had to hide his smile at the regret that Coulson was able to fake. "Unfortunately, Clint ended up at a different hospital from his mother in the ICU."

"Least you came," Clint muttered. "All that matters." He was careful not to move his arm as he stood up. "Let's go."

"Mister Barton." Doctor Davis glanced between Clint and Coulson, a faintly puzzled look on her face. "I…think I owe you an apology. Even if I still don't completely believe you. And what do you do, if I might be so bold?"

Clint saw Coulson emulate _him_ as he tilted his head to one side with a small smile. "You could call me a security consultant, although I'm moving more into logistics and management these days. It allows me more time at home. Incidentally, because I can tell you're wondering, Clint takes after his mother." Gently putting one hand on Clint's back, he directed the archer towards the door. "We can grab something to eat on the way home if you're feeling up to it. And no school until Tuesday, I'm thinking."

Clint waited until they were in the car before saying anything else. "Gotta teach me all that, sir. Don't think I can pull it off like you did."

"You already are." The response surprised Clint. Not sure how to react, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Coulson played with the radio, finally shutting it off. "I had to think fast a couple times. You're doing good, Clint. Take a nap and let me know if it was too much when you're not hurting so much."

"Nah," Clint shifted slightly in his seat with a yawn. "It worked."

"By the way, Clint," Coulson sounded hesitant. "A search parameter wasn't cancelled, and Intel dug up some things you might want to see, like family pictures. You really do look a bit like your mother did when she was your age, with some of your father mixed in."

"Bastard wasn't my father," Clint mumbled as he tried to figure out what he felt. "He was just a…a…donor. Real father would've wanted us. Stop looking, and I'll let you know what I want when I figure it out. Turn left at the next light, there's a drive-through so you can get lunch. I just want a soda."


	39. Chapter 39

People are tricky. Thanks to Hawk at The Beta Branch, and to Kylen, for giving invaluable feedback.

* * *

"Ow ow _ow_," Clint shifted slightly away from Delores. "And ow. Again."

"Ow?" Delores looked up at Clint. "What happened?"

Clint rubbed at the back of his neck. "I kinda got shot? And ended up with stuff in places that it should _never_ go? It's been a couple weeks but I'm still sore."

"_Shot_? Clinton Francis Barton," Delores scolded, "I am _very_ upset with you! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I just did!" Clint started heading for the elevator. "And I kinda…forgot. Meg and Darla have been keeping my free time kinda busy. They say it'll help me heal up faster, but I dunno."

"Girlfriends?" Delores looked pointedly at Clint. "_Two_ of them? Clint…"

"What? No!" Clint shook his head. "They're a couple nurses. They're," he paused, looking unsure. "Can you keep this one quiet? I mean, you're probably the best person to give me advice about this because Coulson doesn't really understand, I don't think."

"Unless I think that it's too important to be kept quiet, of course."

"I dunno." Clint sagged against the side of the elevator, finally reaching out and pushing the button for the ninth floor. "They're like everything I thought having _grandmothers_ would be like, especially after watching you and your family last year." He missed the thoughtful look on Delores' face. "And I don't know if I should run with that feeling or just keep it like I have been."

"I think," Delores started slowly, making a mental note to find out what was going on, "I'll have to get back to you on that." Patting Clint's shoulder as the elevator stopped and the doors opened to allow another person on, she continued, "I do think that at the very least you should stick with whatever you've been doing, as long as it doesn't interfere with anything."

"Getting shot in the chest interfered more, especially since I can't _remember_ anything which _totally_ made my debriefings _suck_. Don't ask about my mission report. I'm only going off of Coulson's word and the fact that I know I _never _miss to know that I actually got the guy." Clint grumbled. "What?"

"Scaring the recruits already?" Delores laughed as the recruit pressed up against the door, wide-eyed. "Mister Blake, show some spine and tact, please. The conversation between me and Agent Barton has no relevance to anybody other than the two of us."

Clint grinned as the recruit suddenly paled. "Geek, Delores?"

"I don't want to see that mouth opening, Mister Blake, and no, Clint, he's actually going to be a field agent. I can't remember, were you told why I wanted you here?"

"Coulson said helping out." Clint slid around the recruit as the elevator doors opened. "But I don't remember much else." He fell silent for a minute, thinking. "Unless this is all a plot of his to make me be sociable because he's like that, the bastard."

"Ah. I'm not that devious, and it is mostly because they're not listening to some of us, so I was hoping that having a current, successful agent that's close to their age show them a few things would help." Delores stood in the doorway to Clint's room as he dumped his bag on the bed. "Anyways, I still want to talk to you. May I take you out to dinner, Agent Barton?"

"Who, me?" Clint grinned as the two returned to the elevator. "I was just going to eat here, but let me pay. You wouldn't _believe_ the amount of food I'm eating right now."

"I'm going to suggest visiting a grocery store too, since they've stopped stocking snacks here." Delores sighed. "We're trying, but I simply cannot understand why the food here is getting worse."

"Eh." Clint shrugged, "I'll figure something out then. And I kinda think that I'd be the _last_ person you'd want the new recruits to see. I mean, I'm younger'n all of them and even though I try, people just don't take me very seriously."

Laughing lightly, Delores led the way to the entrance. "I think that you won't have that problem with this group, considering how Blake looked in the elevator and the fact that your name might be thrown around here occasionally. He's a bit of a stickler for the rules, which is part of the problem. He also is a couple years older than the average recruit, and he did hear you say that you were shot in the chest. He'll put it all together, probably come up with something approximating what he sees as the truth, and tell it to another recruit." Stepping out into the sunlight, she squinted slightly. "You know how they gossip."

"No, I don't," Clint said sourly. "I didn't exactly spend a lot of time with people, you know. At least, not to _talk_. And it hasn't changed much, which I'm totally cool with. Means I have more time to do the important stuff."

"Are you really okay with that?" Delores asked archly.

Clint glared as they descended into the subway station. "Don't you start, too. I get enough of those questions from Beeks, Meg, and Darla. _No_, I'm not 'happy' by some people's definitions, but I'm working on all that crap with Beeks so I don't end up fucking something up. Simple as that, and I'm happy enough by _mine_. I've been working with him for almost a month now, and I'm being a big boy and not spending all my free time in my room. Sitwell and I are trading coaching sessions; he's helping me with some school stuff and I'm helping him with his shooting and fitness 'cause he's lazy and way too outta shape to go into the field. I work out with whoever from Security or Ops is in the gym when I'm there. "

"Relax. Don't get upset at people who didn't know." Delores nodded. "Now, did you have any idea where we were going for dinner?"

Clint glanced at a subway map on the wall. "Huh. Should've taken the bus or walked to Chinatown or Little Italy. All-you-can-eat buffet someplace? I'm hungry enough to eat a jet…it's been _hours_ since lunch. I'm wasting away to _nothing_."

"_There's_ my favorite punk. Let's head up towards Penn Station and see what we find."

Settling into an armchair and picking up a letter that had arrived that day, Delores sighed when she couldn't focus on her daughter's latest report on the family. "What were those names," she murmured. "Two nurses and…Psych? Probably. Somebody that he's helping out. Beeks. That was one of them, and I wonder if there's any relation to Marlene Beeks." Glancing at the clock, Delores nodded firmly and stood up, reaching for a sweater. "Hopefully she's still awake."

Returning to her quarters an hour later, Delores couldn't control her giggles over what Marlene had said. It was obvious that Clint was being Clint, if whom Marlene said her husband was ranting about some days was indeed Clint.

"Not that Jim tells me any names, of course, but it's become a regular occurrence in the past, oh, six months or so that he'll call, wanting to bounce some ideas off of me about his 'infuriating man-child of a patient, you're better with kids than I am, dear, what would you do?'" Marlene had laughed, wiping at her eyes. "I've always told him that I would use play and art therapy with my pediatric patients, but from what you're telling me I think I can understand now just why Jim's always shot my suggestions down, and it seems that it isn't just because my other half is a bit of a stick in the mud sometimes. Well then. Oooh. Excuse me."

"Morning sickness still bad?"

"I don't know why they call it _morning_ sickness when I'm feeling it at ten PM…" the voice had drifted out from the bathroom and Delores had winced in sympathy. "Please tell me it gets better? Lord knows I love him, but Jim's lucky that he's not here right now, because the doctor said that this normally stops by 12 weeks. And you said that he's here for the weekend? Let's all do breakfast in the morning since that's the only meal I can really keep down. I want to talk to my husband's probable 'infuriating man-child.' Do my own evaluation."

Delores had nodded. "It will, and if it gets too bad, go talk to the doctor. I actually ended up in the hospital with my youngest. I'll let you be now and I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

"Ah, so this must be the agent that I'm thinking my husband is eternally calling infuriating." Clint stared curiously at the woman who was shaking his hand. "Marlene Beeks. Psychologist. Starving with hunger and thinking that you're pretty cute."

"Um?" Clint looked at Delores. "Hi?"

Marlene laughed. "Oh yes, Delores, I _like_ this one. Shame that I didn't get to meet you when you first started here, Clint. You probably would have made my life so much more interesting than evaluating a bunch of men and women who think they are the best thing since sliced bread."

"Huh?"

With a laugh, Delores moved closer. "Clint, Marlene Beeks. Marlene, Clint Barton. Marlene, you really didn't want to meet him when he was going through orientation; there were times that I doubted if he was actually going to stay sane, never mind the rest of us. Clint, are you even awake?"

"Yeah," Clint slowly said. "I've been up for a while now. Nice to meet you, Doctor Beeks. And Delores, Coulson said that he was keeping them all away until he figured out that they wouldn't shove me in a padded room."

"We still can do that and worse. And please, Clint, it's Marlene. Otherwise everything will just get too confusing." Marlene patted Clint's cheek and headed for the door. "Now, you promised to buy me breakfast, so let's go."

"I what? I already ate! I've got stuff to do!" Clint looked at Delores. "Help?"

"Oh, amuse us." Delores nodded. "I won't need your help until later this afternoon. Did you have anything time-sensitive, or can it wait an hour or so?"

"Range, gym, hit a couple stores and study some." Responding to the tug on his sleeve, Clint followed the women to the door.

"It's Saturday, which means stuffed French toast at the diner!" Marlene called over her shoulder. "Would you two _hurry up?_"

Following the two women into the diner, Clint rolled his eyes at the waitress' cheery "back again?"

"Oh, you already ate?" Delores looked pointedly at Clint. "I left you a note under your door last night."

"I _said_ I already had breakfast. And I didn't see that note, and I've been up since five." Clint made a face at Delores before grinning at the waitress. "Second breakfast."

"You people are the strangest," the waitress muttered as she put down menus. "Let me go get you your coffee."

"Of course we're strange." Marlene pointedly looked at the waitress. "No coffee for me, please. But we're _also_ the people helping to keep you in business, because a 24-hour diner on this part of Wall Street doesn't get much use. They all prefer to demonstrate their financial worth during normal business and early evening hours by going someplace that charges more, and for their late-night work they'll most likely have food delivered because there will be a reason for them needing to be up at midnight. And I haven't talked to anybody about that, it's just what one would expect from knowing how some of them operate."

As the waitress shook her head and walked off, Clint leaned forward. "I don't know what to think about you."

"Oh?" Clint found he didn't mind _this_ Doctor Beeks asking him that.

"You're not like Beeks."

"That's because I'm only a Beeks through marriage." Marlene leaned back with a smug smile. "I'm a Weatherby by birth. Plus, I'm my own person, not my husband, and for once the future rugrat didn't keep me up all night puking so I'm happy."

"What?" Clint knew he looked confused.

"She's pregnant, Clint." Delores nodded at the waitress. "I know that she wants the French toast special and I'd like the same. Clint, you'll want to try it, too."

"I'll have it again, yeah." Clint glanced at the waitress. "And some orange juice, too."

"Ah!" Marlene exclaimed. "I finally remembered why I didn't recognize you. You came the spring of 1993, right? May-ish?"

"April," Clint corrected.

"I wasn't here!" Marlene sighed in relief. "I thought I was getting pregnancy brain. If I'd started forgetting things, I don't know what I would do." She pointed at Clint. "You think Jim can be bad, you really _don't_ want to meet Joe. He's crazy. Jim's just a little overbearing and full of himself."

"A little," Clint snorted. "He makes me _cry_. I don't like that."

Marlene giggled lightly. "You _let_ yourself cry. But Clint, you're good for him. He was top of his class in school and then Chief Resident; he needs to learn that he isn't perfect. You keep that in mind, too, because nobody's perfect, everybody has their flaws. You, me, Jim, Delores, whoever else you work with. Director _Fury_ isn't perfect. And I'm sure that you've heard all this before and you'll hear it again, but repetition is an amazing tool in a shrink's arsenal." She shifted forward. "Let me tell you some other secrets, too."

* * *

Clint was idly trying to create patterns in the target when he became aware of people entering the range. Putting his gun down, he turned and slipped his earplugs out, nodding at Delores. "Heya, Delores."

She nodded with a frown, and Clint started to feel like running. "Recruits, will you just _shut up_ for a minute? Thank you. This is Agent Barton, and yes, Mister Blake was partially correct when he started that little rumor about Agent Barton's role here." She gestured at Clint. "Agent Barton is an operative. That is not quite the same thing as a field agent, Miss Jones, and he only works with Security on an occasional basis. Agent Barton, when was the last time that you were actually posted as a security officer?"

"Officially?" Clint relaxed when he realized that Delores' frustration wasn't directed at him. "Um, a while ago. Unofficially? Last month, 'cause I was bored. Then I ended up spending way too much time in Medical." He shrugged. "I was stupid." Eyeing the recruits, he asked, "This all of them?"

"As an operative, recruits, Agent Barton is asked to do more things than you will be. He is an assassin and a spy and the _first_ person to make _any_ sort of James Bond joke will find themselves answering to not only Agent Barton, but also myself and half a dozen other people. You do _not_ want that. Now, as such, his shooting and fighting abilities are much, much better than anybody's here and I'm sure that he will be willing to demonstrate that."

"Not cleared for anything bigger than a handgun," Clint interrupted. "Doctor James said no fighting unless I absolutely had to. Least not until the next x-ray."

"Shooting, then. My apologies, Agent Barton, I had forgotten that you'd told me that last night. Care to tell the recruits just why you're on restrictions?"

"Got shot," Clint said shortly. "In the chest. Few weeks ago." He decided that he didn't like this and he started staring at Delores. "It broke ribs through my vest."

"And?"

"And what?" Clint retorted. "Ended up on a ventilator with a chest tube and stuck in Medical for a _week_. I can't remember anything about that trip beyond finding my spot and telling Coulson that I was in place; after that it was waking up in Medical with Doctor James telling me that I was _lucky_." With a snort, he continued, "Lucky, _hell_. You don't want to know what else they did to me."

"Thank you, Agent Barton." Delores nodded and turned back to the recruits. "Agent Barton is also quite possibly the best shooter we've had here in a while."

"Doesn't look it," a voice came from the back. "Lookit the targets."

"Hey now," Clint glared at the entire group, feeling stung. "I'm not going for points. I was going for points, you'd only see a single damn hole. I'm practicing." He picked up a couple used targets and flung them towards the recruits. "A through F. With my off hand. I use my bow, I can do even better shit than write letters in bullets. So shut up and respect your superiors. Delores, are they _all_ like this?" He just responded to her look with one of his own.

"Mister Anderson, since it sounds like you're confident enough to take on Agent Barton, please do so." Delores' voice was cool, and Clint hid his grin as a few recruits took a step back. "Miss Jones, please go get ear and eye protection."

Shrugging, Clint moved to reset his lane and check his gun. "You _so_ owe me for this one," he muttered to Delores. "I _hate_ this."

"You're doing just fine," she whispered back. "Having you here is already helping."

Clint snorted as the recruit moved up to the next lane. "Right. The rules. We use the same gun. Mine. Don't fuck it up. I've got magazines already loaded; you can choose which ones we use. Up to one magazine each, they're small. Only ten rounds. You shoot first." Shoving his earplugs in as he stepped back, he jerked his chin at the gun. "Knock yourself out."

The recruit eyed Clint as he stepped up to the table and picked up the gun, replacing the magazine. Feeling tired, Clint just watched as the recruit fired – a little too quickly, Clint thought. "There. Your turn, Barton."

"That's _Agent_, Mister Anderson. Respect your superiors." Clint ignored Delores' reprimand as he accepted the gun and magazine.

"Not too bad," Clint decided that even if this guy was an ass, he didn't need to be. "Bit spread out. You'll take the target down, but not on the first shot. Maybe the third. Hope that he's willing to go down and stay down." Taking a breath, he emptied the magazine just as fast as the recruit did. "You're also a bit too fast." He brought the target in. "When you get to this level, then you can talk. But for now, shut the fuck up. Nobody gives a damn where you went to school, what you can do, or how smart you are. People only give a damn if you get results." Gesturing at the target, he finished, "I get results. See?"

He looked at Delores when nobody moved. "Good, Delores? If yeah, then I'm gonna go somewhere else now. Making me be all grown up," he grumbled as he shoved his way through the recruits. "I've got too much homework to be dealing with this shit."

"It's a shame that he can't compete professionally," Clint heard Delores casually say. "He'd probably be the best out there. Anybody else think they can get their groupings this tight? No?" As he grabbed a cleaning kit and continued to the door, her voice became angry. "I asked Agent Barton to take time away from his _incredibly_ busy schedule to demonstrate that you need to leave the ego behind. For a man that's almost half the age of some of you and still in college, he already has a level _four_ security clearance. You lot had better _pray_ that you reach that level in the next five years. Are we clear, recruits?"

* * *

"I like your wife," Clint announced as he entered Beeks' office. "She's cool, although I think she's pissed at you."

"She's four months pregnant. I have to be careful what I say, and there are times that I'm very, very happy that I'm here and she isn't. How did you even meet her?" Beeks eyed Clint as the archer flopped into a chair. Sideways. "Do you always mistreat furniture?"

"I was in Manhattan over the weekend. I asked Delores for advice and suddenly I'm taking her and your wife out to breakfast. And lunch and dinner." Leaning his head back over the armrest, Clint stared at the ceiling. "And she said some stuff. I'm infuriating?"

"Very." Beeks scribbled a note to call his wife as soon as Clint was gone. "Although I don't know how she could've figured out that I was talking about you."

"Dunno," Clint said vaguely. "Although I guess she and Delores talk, and Delores is way smart."

"So is Marlene," Beeks started.

"So is _everybody_ here," Clint interrupted, lightly swinging one foot. "Even me, kinda. We're all just smart in different ways. And I like her better'n you. She called me cute."

"Clint," Beeks sighed, "My wife's hormones and desire to make _me_ suffer aside, I'm well aware of the fact that you don't like opening up to men and are more comfortable talking to women. Unfortunately, you're stuck with me, and if you're waiting for me to call you 'cute,' you've got a _long_ wait coming."

"Huh?" Clint sat up and swung around, leaning forward. "I don't what?"

"When it comes to being honest about everything, you trust women. You don't trust men." Beeks shrugged, acting nonchalant. "I didn't say that? I thought I did."

"I trust men," Clint started to say.

"You have verbally expressed a level of trust in and have shown the ability to be honest with two men in the past year." Beeks leaned forward. "Agent Coulson, and I'm still trying to figure out how all that came to be, and myself, because I've told you, repeatedly, what will happen if you're not. _Maybe_ Doctor James in a pinch, but he's a medical doctor and frankly, it's in your best interest to be honest with him. Anybody else on this boat who happens to have a Y chromosome, not at all. I've seen you in the Mess Hall and in the gym, Clint, and I've noticed a few things."

Shaking his head, Beeks narrowed his eyes. "Now, the female members of SHIELD. From asking a couple people, you opened up to that training agent without much prodding. Meg and Darla over in Medical have apparently adopted you; the nurses here don't just do that sort of thing on a whim, so you must have told them things. You just stated that you prefer talking to my wife over me. Do you see the common denominators here?"

"Yeah. Guys are bastards. Women aren't and unless they're feeling nosy, they really do leave a man alone." Slouching down, Clint shifted his gaze to the corner of the room. "I can work with people to get the job done and the rest of my life works for me, and Fury's on that list, too, 'cause he's the big boss. We done?"

Clint was halfway expecting Beeks' snort. "We've barely even started. You're mine until two, so start talking. Why Coulson, how are you feeling, and we'd just gotten to your brother pushing you to run away with him when you ran off last week."

"I'm feeling _fine_. Don't like it when my ribs're touched, but it's getting loads better. I'm allowed back on the range and I can start lifting the light stuff again." Clint started to pull his knees up, but at the sound of his name shifted around to let one leg dangle over the arm of his chair again. "Coulson…I don't _know_ why. He pushed me, yelled at me, gave me ultimatums, was a real ass, but also let me figure some shit out at my own pace. He let me be an ass back. He let me go places that I'd never even thought about going, or never got the chance to. He came up with the idea that he'd get take-out once a week if I kept my room clean. He was," Clint paused. "This is private, right? 'Cause…yeah. And I'm only gonna say it once."

"Completely." Beeks put down his pen. "I'll even stop taking notes."

"He was – _is _– what I wished Barney 'n my dad were like sometimes." Closing his eyes, Clint loosely wrapped his arms around his chest. "He was parental. He only yelled when I was really about to fuck up. He never made me think he was going to start swinging, not like Jacques or Carson when he caught me and his daughter kissing. He…he gave me _discipline_."

Clint sighed. "I had a panic attack one day. I'd just gotten a real driver's license, Coulson said something and I don't remember what, and I freaked out. Ran. He followed. Nobody'd ever followed me before except to drag me back by my ear and shove me in a corner. And then he talked. I was sitting there on that damn bench in Central Park staring at the carousel, and he said that _he_ wasn't stuck with _me_, _I_ was stuck with _him_. I wasn't the hanger-on for once."

Startled to feel the prick of tears behind his eyes, Clint savagely shook his head. "And then he stayed and he _listened_. He completely reworked two days for _me_. Barton the fuckup. Hawkeye, that weirdo in the purple spandex with the bizarre mask. When I failed the GED the first time yeah, he yelled. He yelled, he threatened, and he told me what would happen if I failed it again. That I'd be dead if I ended up on the streets 'cause if I didn't pass the second time around I'd be fired. And then he took me out and got me drunk and gave me fun books to read, not just the GED crap."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Wanted. Worthwhile. I was _valuable_. And a really big part of me said that yeah, it was because he was supposed to get me trained up and then he'd just wash his hands of me, but then nothing really changed after my first mission and then I ended up getting captured and I found out that he barely slept for _three days_. Is he a little overbearing sometimes? Yeah, but not all the time and he helps me understand stuff."

"And then," Clint swung around and stared straight at Beeks. "The first day they allowed me to go back to school after I was shot. He could've passed driving me around off to some random guy from security, but no. He went to school with me and told me that I was actually doing good and that I made _him_ work hard a couple times. _Me_!"

"You're sounding pretty shocked about that one," Beeks observed neutrally. "What if I told you that you shouldn't be, that you've probably got better skills than he does at going undercover like that?"

"Weird," Clint said, covering his eyes with one hand.

"Plus, this was an environment where you had the knowledge and the familiarity, and he didn't. He was on your turf. Catch." Beeks tossed a box of tissues at Clint. When the archer glared and dropped the box on the floor, he sighed. "Clint, I've told you that I don't give a damn about tears. People cry. It's part of being human, and you'll feel better. You usually do, right?"

"No," Clint mumbled. "I just feel tired."

"Clint..."

"Okay, fine," Clint snapped. "Yeah, I do feel better. But I _don't_ like it. Guys don't cry." He ignored Beeks' sigh. "What sort of story did you want me to tell you next?"

"One advantage to a messy desk," Beeks muttered to himself as the door shut behind Clint, "I can hide a voice recorder." Picking up his phone, he dialed a number and relaxed. "Hi dear. How's junior treating you today? So, now that you've met my headache, what do you think?" He laughed. "It's a good thing that I'm not a jealous man, then. Officially, I really do want your opinion, and 'cute and a good guy' isn't valid." He reached for a pen and scribbled down some notes. "Okay, I agree with you on most of that, but I don't think that he's depressed. Why do you say that he's got some paranoid tendencies with leanings towards over-protectiveness?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Huh. I never really thought of it from that angle. So, how would you approach it? I'm _tired_ of being the bad guy here, and I'm just not nearly as good as you are at keeping people off balance."

* * *

"C'mon, Doctor James," Clint begged. "I'm _fine_ now. Honest. Would you at least clear me for easy missions? I'll even use a rifle, not my bow. I'm _dying_ here because I've got two guys to take out still and I'm _bored_."

The doctor hummed, and then lightly poked Clint in the ribs. "Even if it means breaking these again?"

"I'll tape it up or cinch my armor tight or _something_. I'm only seeing the physical therapists once a week now and you did clear me to do _some_ stuff." Clint shifted away from the finger in his side.

"Let's see what the x-ray says, first. If it looks like you don't have any loose ends left, then we'll talk."

Shoving the paper from the doctor in his pocket, Clint dashed out of Medical and headed straight for Coulson's office. Frowning when he discovered the door was locked, Clint continued down the hall. "Hey. D'you guys have an update on the guys from the thing?" He sighed at the blank looks he was getting. "Was a group of three guys, heading a smuggling ring. Took out one of them in Eastern Europe?" When one person wordlessly held out a folder, he grinned. "Thanks!" He called back as he left.

Humming lightly under his breath, Clint headed to the Mess Hall as he glanced through the papers. Pausing, he squinted at a map. "Fuckers," he muttered as he decided it wasn't worth the headache to go back. Most of the things were outlined in black, anyway, and it was easy enough for him to break in later and switch things up on them.

"Nothing from a distance," he mused. "Which sucks. So," he grinned as an idea flashed into his brain. "Robbery gone bad. Coulson shouldn't have a problem with that."


	40. Chapter 40

Feel sorry for Sitwell. Thanks to Hawk at The Beta Branch for the grammar checks and Kylen for the push!

* * *

Grabbing his bag, Coulson left his office and locked the door behind him. Heading for the labs, he lightly tapped the shoulder of a man bent over a computer keyboard. "Agent Sitwell."

Sitwell jumped. "Agent Coulson, sir."

"Let's go." Coulson nodded at the door. "I need you to return to your room and bring things for three days."

"Sir?" Coulson smirked slightly at the panicked look he was being given. "What is this about?"

"You want to go out into the field, I want to show you part of just what you're looking to get into." Coulson didn't mention that he was trying to avoid boredom as well. He followed Sitwell, glancing into the man's shared quarters. "I would suggest to your roommate that he remove that poster from the wall. That sort of decoration is not regulation."

Sitwell didn't respond, still looking nervous. Coulson wondered how fast the rumors would start. With a nod, Coulson turned and headed for the flight deck. "Barton will be waiting."

Clint was anxiously pacing when he saw Coulson and Sitwell. Coulson smirked at the confused look he was getting. "Sir?"

Coulson just walked past Clint and into the jet. Hearing a low conversation start, he glanced back. "You wanted to leave at this time, Clint. Why are you still running your mouth? And were you cleared for all this?"

Clint nodded. "Doctor James said the x-ray looked good, and we go now, I don't miss any school."

"As long as he cleared you." Coulson carefully eyed Clint. Not seeing anything immediately wrong, he nodded. "Let's go. I don't have the time to sit around and wait for you. Explain to Agent Sitwell what you have planned."

"Go, break into this guy's house in the middle of the night, kill him, make it look like a robbery gone bad, go home?" Clint shrugged. "That's it."

"What Barton's failing to mention, Agent Sitwell, is the level of preparation that has gone into this. Which reminds me, Clint, Intel wants to talk to you. Again."

"Boss," Clint looked like he was gearing up for an argument, and Coulson raised an eyebrow. "They _gotta_ learn. Besides, it isn't like I did much!"

"You glued their things to the walls and ceiling, Clint."

"I left their personal stuff alone, but if they were buying office supplies out of their own paycheck then that was just stupid. And it wasn't like I used superglue." Clint folded his arms across his chest and looked annoyed. "Everything will come off. I've tested it out on my own stuff."

Coulson could feel a headache coming on. "You…tested it out." Raising one hand as Clint opened his mouth again, he continued, "I don't want to know." Glancing at Sitwell, Coulson nodded at a seat. "Sit, Sitwell. Shut up, Clint. Sitwell, last chance to change your mind."

"If he gave you an option, then run," Clint snickered. "I wish I could be so lucky."

Sitwell shook his head. "What sort of preparation goes into this?"

"Quite a bit." Coulson held out a thick file. "This is some of the information that has been cleared for your level. In reality, there are probably ten of these,"

"12," Clint interrupted.

"12 of these in total. Raw data, mostly, and then the analysts' interpretation and suggestions. Maps, photos, transcripts of phone calls that may have been intercepted. It's then up to the person who will be going in to decide how they want to work everything."

"I just ask myself what would be easiest." Clint leaned back with a shrug. "Based on the location and what they feel like telling me about my target. It might change based on what else I find out after Intel's closed up for the night and what I see when I actually get my target in sight. Local patterns. The natives. The weather. The phase of the moon. Coulson."

"And unlike Barton, breaking into Intel and looking at things that are above your clearance level actually isn't allowed. Clint…" Coulson knew he sounded frustrated. "You continue to do that and I won't even try to protect you from the repercussions."

"Then tell them to stop giving me _crap_, sir! It's, it's like I'm reading a book but they only gave me the odd pages!" Clint looked sulky. Coulson didn't care. "I've told you this before."

"What they give you has been deemed appropriate by many other people, Clint. Stop being picky, and in the future come to me and ask. I do have a higher clearance level and the ability to get information. Officially."

* * *

Coulson enjoyed the look on the two men's faces as they entered the safe house. Clint's was resigned, and Sitwell looked slightly disgusted. "Clint?"

"On it," Clint dropped his bag and headed for the window, taking a fast look outside. "Least I remembered the right clothes, yeah? Be back."

Sitwell hadn't said a word since the Quinjet, watching everything with wide eyes. He quickly glanced around the room as Clint pulled out a radio and headed for the door. "Agent Coulson, what is this?"

"This? This is a small apartment that we will be staying in until Clint decides to take his target out. He has just gone out to get us some food; he is better at it than I am in this part of the world, even though he can't speak a word of the local language and understands maybe two. You can ask him how he does it when he gets back." Shrugging off his jacket, Coulson turned on another radio. "In the meantime, I would suggest getting comfortable and reviewing the mission data."

Watching as Sitwell glanced around, finally sitting gingerly on one of the mattresses, Coulson shook his head. "Um, Agent Coulson? Is it always like this?"

"Sometimes it isn't nearly as nice." Coulson smirked. "Actually, these sorts of situations are few and far between for most field agents; you shouldn't have to worry quite so much about being in the middle of nowhere. You'll probably be asked to perform things like surveillance and liaise with various government agencies and non-governmental groups, at least at first. You'll be playing to your strengths."

"Oh. Good." Sitwell let out a relieved breath. "Because if it was going to be just…this," he gestured with the file, "I was going to ask to go back to the Helicarrier."

"You're stuck here until Clint's done, no matter what." Coulson went back to his book. "I hope you brought a book, but Clint might be willing to share. If not, do not ask him for advice; the last time he made paper airplanes out of maps. I shudder to think of what he could do with a partner."

"Yes, sir." Sitwell went back to the file. "Sir? What exactly am I looking for?"

With a sigh, Coulson moved to sit next to Sitwell and guide him through the data. He didn't look up when Clint returned. "Clint, did you find something other than apples this time?"

"I got more than apples last time. But yeah." Clint tossed a package in Coulson's lap. "It's also all cooked and some is still hot. But have some chocolate. It's actually pretty good."

Sitwell curiously glanced at what Clint was putting down. "How do you figure out what to get?"

Clint grinned. "Really wanna learn? Lookit what I got. Most of it should look kinda familiar, yeah?"

"Yes." Coulson started to listen in. He was curious, too.

"Okay, so once you get outside of the US, you've got stuff written in multiple languages. Coulson's chocolate has some French on there, and I can recognize that. What are other people, especially men, getting. I've read up on the culture here and pretty much only if a guy is living on his own will he go shopping in a market for food, _especially_ by himself." Clint grabbed at a faintly steaming package. "Smell this. Doesn't it smell pretty good? And I saw people eating it in the market, so I know that it won't kill us to not cook it more."

Coulson started watching when Clint sat down on the floor and pulled a knife. "Finally, folks here let you try stuff. I thought this was pretty good, and it was in a window, so it doesn't need refrigeration." He held out a piece to Sitwell.

Gingerly tasting it, Sitwell nodded. "Interesting."

"See, sir? Don't even need to know the language. Although I don't get my Frosted Flakes for breakfast, but that's just incentive to work faster." Clint grinned up at Coulson. "And 'cause I filled up there, gonna nap a bit. Everything is settling down outside, so I'll check it all out when it's busy again." Pulling a blanket out of his bag, Clint lay down and rolled up.

"He's not like that," Sitwell started.

"You act one way when you're working, and another when you're not, is that correct Agent Sitwell?" Coulson lowered his voice. "Clint started working the moment he saw the locals." Something for which he was very thankful, since he had no desire to try and get Clint to focus in a foreign country. He didn't have any contacts in this city, and the SHIELD ones were less than reliable.

* * *

Clint was in and out of the apartment over the next two days, and Coulson was starting to wonder if the archer would ever make up his mind to finish the mission. Sitwell was also starting to look a little on edge, but Coulson suspected that it was less cabin fever and more the lack of technology. He'd caught fingers tapping in patterns that looked suspiciously like typing on a keyboard, and several times Sitwell had stopped, scrambled for the closest piece of paper, and written down notes.

"Okay," Clint finally said. "Going in tonight. Want souvenirs? 'Cause if all reports are true, this guy might actually have some pretty nice stuff. Otherwise I was just gonna toss it all around, throw some stuff out windows. Take the long way back and chuck other stuff into corners."

For this to be a success, Coulson almost said. And for you not to get hurt again. "No presents. No fingerprints."

"I'm not a _rookie_, Coulson," Clint grumbled. "You _always_ wear gloves when breaking in." He held up a pair. "My original ones fit in even better around here than what Stores offers." Glancing at Sitwell, Clint shook his head. "Not telling."

Coulson pointed at the door. "Then get going. And keep in touch."

Clint finished getting ready and, with a jaunty salute, slipped out the door. Letting out a slow breath, Coulson grabbed the radio and sat down by the window. "Any questions, Agent Sitwell?"

"What did he mean by all that?" Sitwell had a curious gleam in his eyes.

"That is not my story to tell, Agent Sitwell, just as it is not my place to discuss your love of Film Noir. Incidentally, they do take requests for the various movie nights so it isn't all one genre. Please put in a few requests, since the deck workers have chosen nine out of the ten movies shown recently."

"Oh." Sitwell fell silent. "I don't understand."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "What is there to not understand? You're asking for personal information on Barton. Ask him that yourself, don't ask me. Actually, no. I'll give you this. What did he tell you about why he needed help?"

"That he had his GED because he had to drop out of school to take care of his sick mom." Sitwell shook his head. "That's not true?"

"He has a long-term undercover assignment – get a college degree. He has a GED, yes, and he did drop out of school. But it was before high school that he decided to go an alternative route. And that's all that I'll say; you can ask him yourself, see if you can figure out some different scenarios with what you _do_ know, or simply stay curious." Coulson touched the radio and made sure that it was still on. "Your decision."

"Oh. Oh!" Sitwell's head shot up. "I just remembered. You were reaming him out one day back in training. There was _truth_ to that rumor that he was just a dumb carnival act?"

"All reports say that you have the ability to put pieces of information together and come up with a reasonable facsimile of the truth, and are better at it than some others I could name who have been field agents for several years. Ask him yourself, and if he chooses not to respond, then drop it." Coulson held up one hand as static suddenly came out of the radio.

"In place. Waiting."

"Copy." Coulson put the radio down. "Now, did you have any questions that I am _allowed_ to answer?"

"Yeah. So why don't you just kill these guys when you're gathering intelligence?" Sitwell stood up and grabbed the file. "Because for some of these pictures, why not just replace the camera with a gun?"

"Good question." Coulson nodded. "Short answer is: sometimes we do. But most of those pictures are taken at times or locations where it simply isn't safe." He pulled one out. "What can you tell me about this?"

Sitwell shook his head. "He's in a store?"

"The target is an approximately 50-year-old male in a public store that sells a variety of things. There are…five other adults in his immediate vicinity, including one pregnant woman with a small child. It is noon, local time, and raining outside." Coulson took a second look at the picture. "One man is a bodyguard; this is also not a store that they are familiar with."

"How did you figure all that out?" Sitwell sounded baffled.

With a sigh, Coulson started pointing at the picture. "Pregnant woman with a child. Four other adults in the picture in addition to the target. Clock. Most stores aren't open at midnight, and even if this one was, this picture was taken using natural light. People are carrying umbrellas, they have wet shoes, and the child's jacket is wet; it's raining or everybody has to walk through a fountain to enter the store. That man is wearing a jacket cut to conceal a handgun and is focused on the target and the target's surroundings, but is physically turned away from him. Bodyguard is the most logical explanation. I worked in Intel for a bit. Now, explain to me why it was easier to shoot a camera than a gun."

"Too many bystanders?" Sitwell frowned. "Public surveillance systems?"

"Bystanders and public surveillance systems are something that we don't worry about unless the wrong people are about to die, as harsh as that may seem. No, the person taking the pictures is usually a local that is on SHIELD's payroll, and if there are that many people inside the store, how many might there be outside? It is not SHIELD's desire nor intention to send people in on suicide missions. It's a waste of a perfectly good asset."

"Oh," Sitwell said, then fell silent when Clint's voice came over the radio.

"Going in. Mic's open."

"Understood." Coulson stood up and started pacing, lightly turning the radio in his hands. Faint sounds from the street and Clint's breathing over the radio filled the room, and Sitwell started shifting nervously.

"In. Guy needs better locks." Coulson rolled his eyes, but didn't stop pacing. Noises came over the radio, followed by Clint's "bodyguard down."

Sitwell stood up and moved over to a corner; Coulson suspected that he was trying to stay out of the way and attempted to keep his pacing to a small area. He stopped, however, when the slight sounds of a scuffle were heard, followed by a sharp gasp from Clint. Coulson felt his stomach drop. If Barton had been hurt again, he didn't know what he'd do. Leaning against the wall, Coulson closed his eyes and told himself to stay calm. The sound of a suppressed handgun being fired followed, and Coulson tried to relax his hand and not start demanding answers over the radio.

"Target's down." Clint's voice was tight with pain. "Starting part two."

"Acknowledged." Coulson prayed that his voice was still calm, and he slowly slid down the wall to sit on the floor, ignoring the way that Sitwell was staring. More noises came from the radio, and Coulson sighed. He hated having to sit and listen.

After what seemed like hours, Clint reported back in. "Almost back."

"Copy." With a sigh of relief, Coulson dropped his head back to lean against the wall. He wouldn't yell, he told himself. He'd stay calm and calmly ask Barton what happened and if he needed immediate medical attention.

"Back." Clint's voice had Coulson's eyes shooting open. "I think this one went really well, yeah? And, um, could you take a look at my ribs?" He carefully started peeling off his shirt, and Coulson felt a sudden surge of frustration at the sight of how Clint had wrapped his chest, as well as the slight flickers of pain running across the archer's face. "They're a little sore."

"Dammit, Barton," Coulson cursed as he grabbed for the first aid kit and cut off the elastic bandage. It was faster than unwrapping it and he figured that Clint could simply get a new one. "You swore to me that Doctor James had signed you off for anything."

"He did!" Clint objected. "Kinda. Ow, dammit, sir!"

"What, exactly, did he clear you for?"

"Um, handguns? Rifle with less kick than my sniper rifle? Crossbow? And I've never used one of those but it might be cool?"

Coulson shook his head at the bruising that was starting to form on Clint's chest and held out a cold pack. "Not fighting, then?"

"He didn't say?" Clint tried to hedge as he sat down. "Life or death situations? You saw what he wrote, though. No sniper rifles, no bow. And that's why I did it like this! I just didn't expect him to be able to get an elbow into my side the way he did."

Scowling, Coulson slammed a bottle of painkillers down next to Clint. "Here. You _will_ tell me if you have any trouble breathing or your chest starts to hurt, understand?" Stalking over to a mattress, he threw himself down. "Do not bother to wake me up in anything less than six hours unless it's an emergency." Glancing over at Clint, he added, "I'm not mad at you, Clint, so stop looking like that. This makes the third damn time that I've had to listen to you get hurt over the radio, the second time in a row, and it's _not_ something that I'm used to. And as for you…" he was irrationally pleased to see Sitwell's eyes widen and the man take a step back. "Not a _word_." Dragging the blankets over his head, he heard Clint start a low conversation with Sitwell. "Why I thought it was a good idea to bring _him_ along," he muttered as he tried to fall asleep, "I have no idea."

"Whoops," he heard Clint mumble. "He's pissed. Damn."

* * *

"Jim." Coulson slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. "Is Barton cleared?"

"Mentally, yes." Beeks looked up, confused. "Why?"

"Explain to me, then, why he felt it appropriate to lie about how physically capable he was and what Doctor James had told him?"

Beeks raised an eyebrow. "Is this about the mission you just got back from?" He leaned forward. "Sit down, Phil, and let me explain a couple things to you." When Coulson slowly sat down, Beeks nodded. "First. Clint is an incredibly hard man to work with, as you damn well know. Second, _you_ requested it. He's to be trained that it's all about the mission and SHIELD. When he doesn't realize just how long it can take to heal and when he's willing to not lie, but certainly not volunteer information to people, you really can't blame him for this sort of thing happening. So if the x-rays said that his ribs were apparently healed to a certain point, and he doesn't admit that they're still a little sore…" He shrugged. "I suspect that he was bored, frustrated, and upset that he still had a mission that was incomplete, no matter the reason why. Did you ask him?"

"No." All of Coulson's anger suddenly ran out, and he slumped in his chair. "I didn't think that he'd take it that far, though."

"And now you know that he will." Beeks leaned over and unlocked a drawer. Pulling out a bottle and a couple plastic cups, he poured some whiskey into each one. "Here. It's medicinal. I'll ask him, too. I've been forbidden from tracking him down when he's in Medical's hands, something about it disturbing other people, but when he's finally released and comes to see me."

"Don't bother." Coulson accepted the cup with a nod and tossed the liquid back. Breathing out slowly, he continued, "It was…that's twice in a row that I've heard him get hurt over the radio. I don't know how it happened the last time, nobody does." He held up one hand. "I can deal with it. I don't like it because I'm in a situation where I cannot simply step in and all I can do is listen and watch, but I can deal." He stood up. "However, I _am_ allowed to have this needed discussion with him no matter where he is." Tossing his cup into the trash, he spun on his heel. "Damn idiotic archers with no damn sense of self-preservation," he muttered as he started heading for the door.

"Hold it." The command from Beeks had Coulson turning around. "Between the two of us, you know how best to work with Clint. I know that. But I also know that I know more about his mental situation than you, so take a couple minutes, have another drink, and let me teach you about one Agent Clint Barton."

"If you're going to tell me that he's paranoid, I already know." Coulson obeyed and sat back down. "He practically oozes it some days, although it's been getting better. Those nurses taking him under their wing have helped tremendously. I shudder to think of what will happen if they ever get posted someplace else or retire."

"Do you realize just how much he looks up to you? Everything he does is with the goal of getting _your_ approval." Beeks leaned back in his chair and stared off into the distance. "My wife evaluated him the other weekend when he went to Manhattan, without telling me her plan. She didn't tell Clint what she was doing, either. Now, her personal opinions aside," he grimaced slightly, "I was the recipient of a lecture telling me how much of an idiot I was on a _professional_ level."

Standing up, he started to pace. "Marlene pointed out that Clint's _nothing_ like what most people have ever seen before outside of some care facilities or prisons and that I've been trying to shoehorn him into a nice little box."

"You're telling me things that I do know." Coulson calmly watched the psychiatrist. "So what do I _not_ know about the asset that I am still training? He's been here for over a year and a half now."

"Do you know how he sees you?" The apparent change in subject had Coulson raising his eyebrows curiously. "I finally became curious and asked him the other day."

"It varies depending on the day." Coulson didn't know if he was comfortable with the direction the conversation was going. "Most of these days I seem to be a nuisance."

"You are the _only_ person he let in, unconditionally and without hesitation." Beeks spun around and pointed a finger at Coulson. Stalking over, he sat on the edge of his desk. "You gave him security, _you_ were the one to make him mature. He uses the phrase 'Coulson says' fairly frequently, which also tells me quite a bit. He's implied all this before, but that was the first time that he actually _said _it to me."

"Oh." Coulson blinked, startled.

"So I would strongly suggest that you think about how _you_ see _him_. Are you looking at Clint Barton, the person, or Clint Barton, the SHIELD asset? Are you upset because Clint was stupid and tweaked his ribs, or are you upset because an asset is now out of service for an unknown period of time?"

"You're out of line," Coulson stood up, voice tight. "And you aren't telling me anything new, either."

"No, I don't think that I am overstepping here. It may not be new, but I think that you just haven't acknowledged anything. I may have problems with Clint, yes, but you are one hell of a lot more in line with what I'm used to. Normal childhood – you were the oldest child, with more than one sibling. Family didn't have a lot of money, but you lived comfortably, and learned about work ethics and responsibilities from a young age. You were military; I'm guessing not Marines, but Army and you were fast-tracked to OCS. You became comfortable here, never really thinking about your future, and then suddenly you were told that you were going to be responsible for another person. You never even had a pet of your own, not even a goldfish; how could you deal with somebody like Clint? You read every single piece of paper that you were given on him, probably pushed to be told more. You made lists on what to do and changed them daily. You're scared shitless, Philip Coulson, and you're covering it up. Believe me, if you were going to screw up, you would have already. But when Clint is willing to go to this sort of length to _avoid_ your disapproval? If that isn't success, I don't know what would be."

Beeks snorted. "And before you say anything, I didn't go digging where I'm not supposed to. If Clint knows any of your background – and that's a pretty big if, since you keep everything close to your chest like most people here – he hasn't said a word to me."

"I was in the Air Force. We had 300 head of cattle and some chickens; the land's been in my family for generations." Coulson narrowly looked at Beeks, unsure where and how the conversation had suddenly turned around on him. "At least, those numbers were right seven years ago."

"Because you are the classic SHIELD agent who decided that he needed to break things off with his family. Too many connections and liabilities, so you picked a fight and ended up getting kicked out. What about? I've heard that completely opposing their political and religious viewpoints is a popular one. So is putting work over family." Beeks shook his head. "I wish people would stop being so _stupid_. Damn self-centered, too, to pull things like that. Before you pull a Barton and run off, think about this? For both you _and _Clint? Would it kill you to stop needing to be in control so much? To just let things happen once in a while? Believe me, you could learn more from Clint than how to give me a headache. How to relax and go with the flow might be a good place to start."

* * *

Coulson sighed when he entered his office and saw the paper airplanes sitting on his desk. Noticing writing on one, he unfolded it and sighed again. "Barton." He wondered how Clint had gotten in, but a quick glance around showed him several different options. Unfolding the rest, he couldn't hold back his laughter at what Clint had left. Hearing a scrabbling sound from above his head, Coulson suddenly stopped and looked up, one hand reaching for the gun under his desk.

A pair of feet, followed by a body lightly dropping to the floor, had him shaking his head. "Knock. On the door. When I grant permission, then you may enter through the door. The ceiling is not the correct route. Understand?"

"Yeah," Clint shrugged as he dropped into a chair. "But then people would've seen me and I don't put it past Doctor James to send out a search party. He didn't say I _had_ to stay, he just kinda sighed and pointed at the door."

Coulson resisted the urge to groan. "Obviously I will have to resume making sure you behave yourself there. I no longer think I can believe you when you say that you're fine, so I need to hear it directly from somebody with the training to make that decision."

"Can't blame me for thinking that he was telling me to go away." Clint looked thoughtful. "I didn't want him to yell."

"Fine. Clint, what were you _thinking_? If you're not completely cleared for _everything_, you're not allowed out!"

"Because I was _bored_." Clint scowled and leaned forward. "I could go to school, study, shoot _handguns_, and go running on the damn treadmill for up to 30 minutes twice a day. What else was I supposed to do? Go after those other two by _thinking_ about it?"

Coulson wasn't able to respond at first. The damn shrink was actually right. "Tell somebody? There are other things that you could have done."

"Hated dealing with the recruits." Clint sounded sulky. "It was nice talking to Delores and meeting Mrs. Doctor Beeks, but I like my bed here better and the recruits were all a bunch of assholes and Delores put me on the spot there. What else is there?"

"Working on the command deck." Coulson kept his voice dry. "Seeing as how you have the practice. Intel can always use more people to review data, and it would have been good for you to learn more about how they work. Still is, actually, and maybe it would do more to get them to work with you than your breaking in does. Relaxing."

"You don't get it, Coulson." Clint leaned forward. "I _tried_ all that. Except for being nice to Intel, they just piss me off and I think the feeling's mutual. I tried telling myself that hey, it was a vacation, just had to go to school four days a week. No go. Okay, fine then. Not a vacation, my job was just to go undercover at school and get perfect grades. Still didn't work. _I felt like I didn't finish my mission_."

"Ah." Coulson nodded. "I guess that's something that I will have to remember, then. Next question. How did you even figure out how to come in through the ceiling?"

"That." Clint shrugged. "That was easy. All those maintenance corridors and accesses; just had to figure out which office was yours. That took a couple weeks, but obviously I figured it out. You like my report?"

"As a poet, I wouldn't want to read anything else of yours. As a report, go rewrite it in something other than rhyme and get it back to me. That should keep you occupied for a little bit while I try to figure out something that you can do." Coulson calmly pushed the papers across his desk. "And also while I call Medical and find out just what, exactly, you are and aren't allowed to do. Go away."

Gathering up the papers, Clint nodded. "Can I try haiku?"

"No. Actual sentences using correct grammar and punctuation." Coulson resisted the urge to groan as Clint left his office, this time through the door. "I need a vacation."


End file.
